


A Study in 'Spoiled'

by sadistically_sweet



Series: The Adventures of 'Little' Sherlock and 'Daddy' John. [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age Play, Daddy Issues, Daddy Kink, Diapers, M/M, Mentions of Femdom, Mommy Kink, Non-Sexual Kink, Spanking, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-05
Updated: 2013-09-02
Packaged: 2017-11-13 14:52:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/504692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadistically_sweet/pseuds/sadistically_sweet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone knows that the Great Sherlock Holmes is the biggest brat the first, second, and third worlds have ever known...and John intends to do something about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> My first foray into the world of fanfiction, and I had to pick the fandom with some of the highest standards and top tier works out there.  
> Constructive criticism is ALWAYS welcome. Perve on, lovies.  
> 

"...John?"  
  
John ignored it, and went on reading his paper (the one he'd been trying to read _all day_ ), still trying his best to comprehend the article he'd been staring at for the past 20 minutes alone.  
  
Someone was making that a tad difficult, though.  
  
Trying again..."John?"  
  
He braced his shoulders' and buried his face further into his paper.  
  
There was a loud _huff!_ of air from the direction of the sofa, then.... _"JAWWWWWWWWN!!!"_  
  
John involuntarily clenched both fists, crinkling the pages. He sighed, and with no small bit of effort, willed himself to ease the tension out of his hands. "Let me guess...bored?" he asked, dryly.  
  
Sherlock snorted. "Obviously," was his reply, and John could clearly hear the 'you bloody idiot' that his tone implied. No, not implied...stated.  
  
With a groan low in his throat, John rubbed his face with both hands; paper set aside in resignation. _Boredom_ never meant good things with Sherlock...the man couldn't be simple and pick up a book to read, or click around on the telly for a show, or even take a stroll through the park-no, thing's with Sherlock were never 'simple'.  
  
NEVER.  
  
Learning to hide his gun, along with his bullets, however...that had been fairly simple.  
  
John waved his arm in the direction of the kitchen weakly, already knowing the answer to his next question, but asking anyway.  
  
'Don't you have some sort of experiment to work on?...Extra limbs or intestines to poke at?"  
  
 _'Fingernails to set fire to...?'_  
  
The lanky man sniffed and flopped over onto his belly, eyes peering at the doctor from over the arm of the battered sofa. "Finished them all this morning; all results turning out as predicted. Boring."  
  
John closed his eyes and counted to five. _'I swear, it's like dealing with a three year old.'_ Although, all things considered, he would certainly trade dealing with a tantruming toddler than a tantruming Sherlock anyday. At least you could put a three year old in a time-out.  
  
He shook his head...that train of thought, while mildly hilarious, wasn't helping him now.  
  
"What on earth are you smiling about, man?" his flatmate snapped, head popping up to scowl at him. "Is the deterioration of my mind from having no cases to exercise itself upon funny to you?"  
  
Actually, John was completely unaware he'd even been grinning; the very image of a pouting Sherlock being made to stand facing the corner was highly, HIGHLY amusing.  
  
He allowed himself a small chuckle, then picked his previously abandoned paper back up, flicking to the familiar article. "I honestly have no idea what to tell you, Sherlock...you're a grown man, contrary to what your behavior suggests, so figure something out yourself." He punctuated his last word with a snap of the page.  
  
The near-murderous look Sherlock was giving him at that moment was enough to give any onlooker the worry of the paper in John's hand spontaneously bursting into flames; the seething tone in his voice nearly doing the job itself. "Some _bloody_ help you ar---!" he began shouting, then paused.  
  
John looked back up, curious at the abrupt silence, yet bracing for the rest of the verbal onslaught he expected was still coming his way.  
  
But the expression on his flatmate's face had changed considerably. In place of smoldering rage, there was what John had come to call Sherlock's 'thinking face'. The detective's lips pressed together in a tight line, corners' turned down into not-quite-a-frown, eyes' wrinkling at the edge's.  
  
A moment later, Sherlock finally spoke up again, his tone no longer holding an edge. "What did you mean," he began, eyes flicking over to meet John's, "when you said 'contrary to what my behavior suggests'?"  
  
John's mind went blank; is that what he had said? Yes, he supposed he did, taking into account what he'd been thinking moments before. He gazed back into the eyes that were bearing into him. "Well, think about it, man..." Sherlock's eyebrows quirked up at that, as if to say, _'Really? You're telling ME to think?'_. John held up his hand. "I know, I know...trust me, I have NOT forgotten who I'm talking to." The eyebrows lowered. "But really, what I'm getting at, is..." It was John's turn to pause, searching for the best way to put it. "Who's more likely to pitch a fit over not being entertained; a grown man, or a whingy toddler?"  
  
The eyes narrowed, and he found himself wondering if he was going to have to carry on the rest of the conversation with Sherlock's facial expressions. "Are you suggesting that I'm being a...a baby?!" the man spat.  
  
A mental sigh... _'So much for that.'_  
  
John quickly snapped back to his former indignation and squared his shoulders; it was out on the table now. "I'm not _suggesting_ , I'm _STATING!_ " he spat back.  
  
Now, if it were physically possible for the human brain to make sound, Mrs. Hudson would have wondered why a train was coming to a screeching halt in the flat above her. He could practically see the sparks and smoke shooting out of Sherlock's ears, in any case.  
  
Sherlock opened and closed his mouth several times, apparently taken aback....which was quite amazing to John. It wasn't everyday someone managed to get one over on the worlds' only consulting detective.  
  
Well...there was Irene, and Mycroft, of course...but he had no problem admitting that he was nowhere near either of their intellectual levels.  
  
So, in light of such an occasion, he decided to take advantage of his formidable friend's speechlessness.  
  
"Oh, don't even act like that's some horrific insult! You know exactly what you're doing and why you do it; for attention! I mean, look at this right now...I was perfectly content to sit and read the paper-the paper I didn't have time to read this morning, because someone decided to muck about with my alarm clock, thank you for that-and you couldn't stand it! I don't know if you either didn't get enough attention as a child, or too _MUCH_ , but it's absolutely ridiculous...I'll tell you one thing, though; If I was your da', I'dve nipped this problem real quick, with a right good smack!"  
  
He finished his long-winded rant with a deep breath, not really expecting a response. Which, knowing Sherlock, was pretty much a given. John has one of these diatribes at least once a month now, so the only thing he expects anymore is catching a glance of dark, bouncy curls' as Sherlock flounces (yes, the man _flounces_ ) away.  
  
This time, though, John could swear he caught the beginnings' of tears sheening Sherlock's eyes before he leapt off the couch (no man with limbs that long should be able to move _that_ quickly) and bounded up the stairs to his room, barricading himself in with a slam and (what sounded like to John) a sniffle.  
  
John rubbed his face and sighed, a bit of his own earlier frustration ebbing away into guilt. He'd obviously touched a nerve; however devoutly Sherlock claimed not to have feelings, he was still human, dammit, and the last thing John had wanted to do was hurt them.  
  
Right, well....better go check on him, then.  
  
John hauled himself out of his chair with a grunt...psychosomatic or not, the London weather had been living up to it notoriety in the recent weeks, and all the damp was wreaking hell on his leg.  
  
A memory wriggled its way into his forethoughts'; a memory of his own da' struggling to climb up out of his armchair, all groans, moans, and popping joints, to deal with him or Harry, one.  
  
He gave a not-alltogether-bitter chuckle. Now he knew exactly why his da' had always shouted 'not to make me come get you!'  
  
Managing to hobble over to the bottom of the stairs, he stopped and looked up at the landing. Was it such a brilliant idea to go knock and enter Sherlock's room after such a hissy? Probably not, he decided. Might get a book lobbed at him for his troubles.  
  
A peace offering sounded good (and he was already in the mood for a cuppa himself), so he ambled into the kitchen to search among the jars' of viscera for clean mugs, as well as Sherlock's favorite tea.  
  
Just as John had the tea steeping and was stood there at the countertop, stirring the milk into his (for once, they had fresh, uncontaminated milk this week), and sugar into Sherlock's, when he heard the stairs creaking.  
  
He turned slowly, still stirring his own tea, and leaned back against the edge of the counter. Keeping his eyes' focused on his mug, he watched the swirling patterns and trails his spoon made while waiting to see if his friend would speak; when he remained silent, John looked up.  
  
 _'Now, that's a bit of a surprise'_...the sight that greeted him wasn't at all what he'd expected. What he _had_ been expecting, really, was a still-huffy-but-not-going-to-admit-it-even-at-the-threat-of-torture flatmate breezing into the kitchen as if John weren't standing there, planting himself in front of the microscope with a soil sample (or a beetle specimen indigenous to Zimbabwe; you never know), and ignoring him for the rest of the evening.  
  
What he _got_ , though, was Sherlock leaning against the doorframe, fiddling with the bottom hem of his robe and undeniably trying to not look at John.  
Was he...Was he acting _contrite?_  
  
Sherlock glanced up then, caught John's eye, and quickly glanced back down.  
  
 _'Well, so he is...'_  
  
It was then that John got a bit of a 'wild hair'...like earlier, it wasn't often (if ever) that anyone caught Sherlock so out of sorts, and here it is, happening not once, but _twice_ in one day.  
  
And John was going to run with it.  
  
 _'Hell, apologies can wait until later.'_  
  
"Something on your mind, then?" he asked, tapping the last drop of tea off his spoon before dropping it into the sink.  
  
Sherlock kept fidgeting with the cloth in his hands, worrying it to the point that John was afraid it was going to fall apart in a matter of seconds. He mumbled something, but John could make no discernible words out.  
  
"Come again?"  
  
He mumbled slightly louder.  
  
"Oh, for God'sakes, Sherlock! _Look_ at me, would you???"  
  
The other man's head popped up and met John's gaze as his hands flew behind his back. He noticed the uncharacteristic motion, but he was more interested in finding out what his flatmate had been muttering.  
  
"Now, say that again, where I can hear you this time."  
  
Sherlock inhaled deeply, then exhaled in an agonizingly slow manner. "Just that....it's just that you were correct, you know....earlier."  
  
John simply stood there for a moment, wondering if he'd heard correctly, decided that yes, indeed he had, and barked out a humorless laugh as he realized what Sherlock meant.  
  
"Is this about me calling you a baby? Look, I know that was kind of a dickish thing to say, and I'm sor-"  
  
"No!" Sherlock snapped, cutting him off. John cocked an eyebrow.  
  
"I mean, no," he said, closing his eyes and crossing his arms. "Don't apologize, John. And that's not what I was referring to...though you were astute in that observation, as well." The man's voice had lowered back down to barely above a mumble, and John, for one, was getting more than a tad fed up with this game of verbal 'roundabout.  
  
His leg was also getting fed up.  
  
John groaned as he heaved himself away from the counter, partially out of pain, and partially out of irritation. He pulled out one of the chairs (the least stained one) at the table and sat down heavily, motioning to the one on the other side. "Sit. Now."  
  
Sherlock hesitated the slightest bit, then pulled the chair out and sat, picking the hem of his robe back up.  
  
Before he'd shoved off the counter, John had grabbed the other mug of tea, and he pushed it over towards his friend.  
  
"Now," he said, sitting back. "It's getting late, and as you are very well aware, Sherlock, my brain is just not capable of firing off as quickly as yours. So let me say one thing, _uninterrupted,_ " He gave the other man a pointed look, "and then I want you to stop talking in damned circles and spit out what you've got to say, alright?"  
  
Sherlock frowned, but nodded.  
  
"Ok, great...as I was starting to say earlier; I _am_ sorry for being short with you," he held up one finger as Sherlock's mouth opened to protest, already forgetting what John had just said about interruptions, but surprisingly enough, he closed it again and let John continue. "But, I'm not sorry for _what_ I said, now that I think about it. I meant every word; I'm just sorry for the _way_ I said it. I should've kept my temper, and not snapped at you."  
  
Jesus, it really was like talking to a small child.  
  
The entire time he'd been talking, Sherlock kept switching back and forth between wrapping his hands around his tea, or fiddling with that damned robe. John cleared his throat, and waited until the other man met his gaze again.  
  
 _'How in the fuck could someone who has no issue with violating one's personal space have such an inhibition about eye contact, for Christ'sakes'?'_  
  
John shook his head; he was never going to understand Sherlock completely.  
  
"Your turn. What was all that about me being 'right'?" He raised his own tea for a sip.  
  
Silence.  
  
Just as John was ready to regret saying he shouldn't have lost his temper, Sherlock finally spoke up.  
  
"When you stated that I either got too much attention, or not enough...your _deduction_ was quite correct," that low, baritone voice murmured.  
  
Though, even as low as it was, John still caught the edge of sarcasm on 'deduction'. He fought the smirk that was struggling against his lips.  
  
"Ah, I see...well, which is it, then?" He took another sip of tea.  
  
"...Both."  
  
The smirk lost, and a bemused expression took its place. 'I'm sorry?"  
  
Sherlock sighed and held his face in his hands. "You. Were. Right. On. Both. _Do_ try and keep up, John."  
  
"Yes, yes, I'm back to being an idiot, I know. How does that work, though? Too much attention, but not enough...?"  
  
"Father was absent most of the time...he hadn't completely abandoned us, mind you, his business associates wouldn't have looked favorably upon that...He just had no patience for children; especially brilliant children he had no hopes of keeping up with. "  
  
John grunted. "Sound's familiar."  
  
Sherlock shot him a withering glance, and John held up his hand. 'Sorry, sorry...go on, please."  
  
He did. "Mummy was much more present, and substantially more affectionate than Father...but, she was also a very 'fragile' woman, and after a child like Mycroft, wasn't keen on dealing with another with such a level of intellect. That, and I'm often told I was what is referred to as a 'handful'. "  
  
 _'Oh, if that is not the fucking understatement of the century...'_ John thought, grinning again.  
  
"...What are you smiling about now?" his flatmate snapped, already back on defensive mode.  
  
"Mycroft may have mentioned something about pirates, once..." he responded, giggling.  
  
"Oh, please!" Sherlock huffed, indignant. "Of course he wouldn't remember that I was a _buccaneer_ , not a _pirate!_ "  
  
John busted out laughing at that one, and the sneer plastered all over his friend's face didn't help matters.  
  
Once the giggles died down and he caught his breath again (which was no easy feat with the look on Sherlock's face; every time John looked back at him, it set him off again.), John was able to collect himself enough to ask a serious question.  
  
"So, let me guess...with your dad out of the picture , for the most part, and your mum not able to deal with you...you and Mycroft kept getting passed to someone else?"  
  
Sherlock shook his head. "No, My was already at University at that point...it was just me. I was the one passed on to all numbers of nurses and nannies."  
  
 _'Ah, that's the case, then...'_ "Not enough attention from the one's that mattered, and all the rest gave in to everything you wanted," John figured. The other man looked down into his now-cool tea, and nodded.  
  
"I'm sorry about that, Sherlock...I really am. It's never right for a kid to get shuffled around like that."  
  
But there was another question nagging at him. "What about the nannies and the like? Were they all nice enough?" John was seriously hoping a good answer. Kids getting mistreated was one thing that really got his temper up.  
  
Sherlock made a dismissive noise. "Of course they were...my parents controlled their pay. And all were easy enough to manipulate, anyway."  
  
 _'Of course...'_ he thought, rolling his eyes. Not quite the answer he had hoped for, but it wasn't surprising. "Right, right...so, quite literally, you just never grew out of that 'spoiled brat' phase."  
  
"Must we have the discussion on the misuse of the word 'literally' again, John?"  
  
 _'Bastard.'_ "Don't dodge the point, you prat....face it, you're just a big kid."  
  
An odd look crossed Sherlock's face; one that John couldn't quite discern. It looked like a bundle of different emotions; anxiety being the prevalent one...a bit of eagerness, too? Perhaps a little anger?  
  
The odd cluster wasn't what was unnerving him, though...it was more the fact that this was the most emotion Sherlock had ever shown, period. Even his outburst during the Hound case hadn't been this turbulent.  
  
"Sherlock?..." he said gently, starting to worry at the silence from the other. "Is there anything else?" His mind was already reeling with all sorts of horrible possibilities that could be at play here.  
  
Just as he was beginning to suspect that this was going to be one of the man's hours-long silent periods, Sherlock stood up suddenly, and left the kitchen without a word.  
John groaned. _'Crap, what now...?'_  
  
The minutes ticked by...Sherlock must have retreated back to his room.  
  
 _'Sod this...I'm going to bed.'_  
  
He'd just cleared away and washed both mugs when he turned back to the table and discovered his flatmate back in his original spot, along with John's laptop.  
John jumped. "Seriously, I'm putting a fuckin' bell on you...!"  
  
Sherlock smirked, but the expression was humorless. "You're the one who asked if there was anything else, John...I just thought it would be easier to show you." He motioned for John to sit back down, and once he did, turned the screen towards him.  
  
There, at the top of the page: **AGE PLAY**  
  
It took a minute to process what he was reading; he wasn't a prude, by any stretch...he'd dated all sorts of women, and there had inevitably been a few with odd kinks and fetishes (the one bird that had gotten off on being tickled, now THAT had been a fun one), so he'd heard of this one in passing-but Sherlock? With a fetish? This _particular_ fetish, of all people?  
  
 _'Well, this'll teach me for ever assuming anything about the prick...'_  
  
He continued to read, casting sideways glances over the man sitting opposite of him. Sherlock was already in his default stasis...eyes closed, hands steepled in front of his face. He was probably running through every possible outcome of this scenario for the umpteenth time.  
  
Reaching the end of that article, he noticed that there were several other tabs open, all pertaining to the same topic, ranging from more articles explaining different psychological aspects behind it, all the way to personal blogs from other age player's and websites selling adult-sized baby accessories like cribs and clothing.  
  
Leave it to Sherlock to be as thorough as fuckin' possible...  
  
Once finished browsing, he sat back and did some thinking. It was a lot of information to absorb all at once, but the more he thought, the more it made sense...it just fit. Sherlock's behavior, past and present, from the day he'd handed over his phone until now...and from what he'd learned about his childhood just a short while ago; all of it fit together like one of those 3-D jigsaw puzzles you see in stores.  
  
There was just one thing he wanted to be absolutely clear on.  
  
"Sherlock?"  
  
He waited until heavy lids lifted and bright blue eyes pierced into his.  
  
"Yes?" One eyebrow cocked.  
  
John smiled.... _'always on guard, this one...'_  
  
"Stop worrying so damn much...its fine. I told you before, it's all fine."  
  
Sherlock's shoulders eased down, slowly, and John realized just how tense he'd been this entire time.  
  
He chuckled, trying to ease things a bit more. "Look, if you want to have someone come up and coddle you up, just let me know ahead of time and I'll clear out for the da-"  
  
Apparently, that was the _wrong_ thing to say.  
  
 _"Ughhhh!"_ Sherlock threw up his hands and stood abruptly, nearly toppling his chair. He began to pace. "No, that's not the point at all, John! If I wanted someone else to come in, don't you think I could have without alerting you in the slightest?!?"  
  
John paused. Well...he _was_ at surgery most days. And knowing Sherlock, the man could have been running the Russian circus out of the flat if he'd wanted, and John would never be the wiser.  
  
But why...?  
  
Oh.  
  
 _OH....._  
  
"Wait wait wait wait, WAIT....you've been telling me all this, _showing_ me all this, because...?"  
  
Sherlock stopped his pacing; his robe once again occupying his hands. "Because...I thought that you'd perhaps be interested in...in helping me indulge."  
  
"Sherlock, I..." John really didn't know what to say.  
  
"And," his friend popped in, "because I trust you. I can't think of anyone better."  
  
Dammit. _'Proceed with caution!'_ his brain screamed at him. He sighed. "I thought we cleared this; I'm not ga-"  
  
"It's not a sex thing, John!" Sherlock shouted. He seemed...well, he seemed desperate. "Didn't you read at all? Everything I pulled up was on the _non-sexual_ aspect!"  
  
John flicked back through each page....Indeed, they were.  
  
"...You just want me to baby you?"  
  
A slight blush. "No...not so much as 'baby', really...look, see how some people attribute to different ages, in varying degree's?" He leaned over John to click on one tab in specific. John just sat back and listened.  
  
"...so, I don't feel young enough for crawling, or baby talk and bottles. Nappies, " he hesitated and looked to John for a reaction. John just gazed back, listening in earnest. Sherlock cleared his throat, and went on. "I...I might want to try those later on, but we don't have to start with them," he finished quickly.  
  
John was silent...Jesus, this was an evening full of hesitation and pregnant pauses-  
  
 _'Pregnant pauses,'_ he snorted.  
  
He noticed that Sherlock was watching him intently; probably already aware of what John was going to say before he even knew himself.  
  
"...What do you want to call me?" he finally asked.  
  
Sherlock sat back down heavily and twisted his robe so roughly that John thought he was for sure going to rip it this time.  
  
John figured that he knew this answer, this time. He'd already been right once this evening, why not shoot for a twofer?  
  
"You just want to be taken care of, is that right? To come home and shed the 'Detective'...and to just _stop thinking_ for awhile, eh?" he said gently.  
  
Fresh tears began sheening the eyes that met his. "Yes." A mere breath of a whisper. "More than anything. They just don't _stop_ , John, all the details and facts and thoughts and voices and images..." the voice broke.  
  
John stood and stepped over to the man, wrapped his arms around his shoulders, and held him against his chest.  
  
Sherlock turned his face into John's jumper, and let out a muffled sob.  
  
"Shhh..." he said, running a hand through dark, curly hair. "We'll get it sorted, ok? It'll be alright..." John patted his back and rubbed his shoulder until the sobs stopped, then he shifted back and took Sherlock's face into his hand, slowly lifting it until he was looking down into red-rimmed eyes.  
  
"I want to hear you say it, Sherlock...tell me who you need me to be."  
  
Sherlock bit his lip and tried to look down, but John had a firm grip on his chin. "Ah-ah, look at me and answer."  
  
John felt him swallow hard before those perfectly-pronounced lips parted and said, albeit haltingly, "D...Daddy?"  
  
Cute and sweet. Two words that, had anyone ever used them to describe Sherlock Holmes (or even use them in the same sentence), John would have laughed until he got sick on himself.  
  
But right now, with the man's face cradled in his hand, eyes' still shiny with tears, lips now in a slight pout...Sherlock Holmes was the cutest, sweetest fucking thing he'd ever seen.  
  
"Good boy..." he said, grinning like...well, like an idiot.  
  
Sherlock heaved a shaky sigh and smiled back, wrapping his arms around John's waist and squeezing.  
  
They stayed like that for who knows how long, until John caught sight of the clock on the wall.  
  
"Oh, for...it is _waaaaay_ past bedtime."  
  
Sherlock dug himself out of the burrow his nose had made in John's jumper to look up at him and frown. "But there's still so much to discuss...!"  
  
John put his finger up to the man's-  
  
( _His boy's?_ )  
  
-lips. "And we can wait to continue this discussion tomorrow after I get home. It's Friday, so if you've behaved yourself 'til then, we can stay up a little later and hash out the details...then we can start the weekend proper."  
  
Sherlock pursed his lips and thought. "Yes," he said at last. "That makes the most sense. Less likely to be interrupted that way, as well. Plenty of time for Mrs. Hudson to clear out for a sudden weekend trip, too."  
  
John chuckled. "Glad you see things my way, for once."  
  
Back in his full, snarky glory, Sherlock stood and sniffed, "Sarcasm isn't your strong suit, John."  
  
He had to laugh. "Oh, back to 'John' already, is it? I think I preferred 'Daddy'..."  
  
The blush was back, creeping high up on those outlandish cheekbones, and with a twirl of his robe, John's consulting three year old flounced out of the room and back up the stairs. "Not funny, _Jawn!_ "  
  
"...Does that mean you don't want me to tuck you in?"  
  
 **SLAM!**  
  
Giggling hysterically, John gathered up his laptop and headed for his own room.  
  
He had a bit more research of his own to do.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, my....Sherlock's done it now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally starting to figure HTML codes out...just bear with me, lol!

"Is Daddy going to have to spank his little boy for being naughty?"

Sherlock stuck out his bottom lip and shook his head, curls bouncing all over.

" _Nooooo..._ " he whined, clutching a little brown and white plush toy to his chest.

"No, what?" A warning look.

Sherlock squirmed where he sat on the floor, wearing nothing but a nappy, legs straight out in front of him.

"No _sir_...sorry, Daddy," he whispered, peering up at John with wide eyes.

John smiled. "That's my good boy...now, do as I said, before I have to smack that little bum of yours'."

His boy blushed at the praise, then maneuvered to his hands and knees and, with his toy still clutched tightly, crawled over to where John was sat on the sofa.

"That's it..." John crooned. "Come to Daddy."

When Sherlock reached him, he put his hand on John's knee and pulled up until he was kneeling, face-to-face.

"Open up," he said in a sing-songy tone. He waited until those Cupid's Bow lips parted slightly before gently pushing the little light blue dummy he'd been holding between them.

'Such a good, good boy for Daddy..." He ran his hand through Sherlock's curls as his little boy quietly sucked away on his new accessory. John leaned back and patted his lap.

Sherlock grinned around his dummy and quickly clambered up onto the sofa and settled himself into John's waiting arms.

John hugged his boy tightly as he buried his face into hair that smelled sweetly of baby shampoo. His boy chuffed happily and nuzzled into the crook of his neck.

_"My sweet, sweet boy..."_

John opened his eyes.

_'Jesus. Fucking. Christ.'_

He blinked against the increasingly bright morning light that filled the room, and realized with a sigh of relief that he was still in bed.

 _'Oh, shit...'_ he rubbed his face, fighting off the last remnants of sleep and wondering just what in the hell that dream meant.

It was all a product of last night's drama, had to be, he reckoned. And sifting through website after website until the wee hours' of the morning is bound to put some weird shit into your head.

John laid there for another minute or two, replaying that last little bit-

_'My sweet, sweet boy...'_

-and pondered why he'd woken up right then.

Come to think of it...why hadn't his alarm gone off and woken him?

Aw, shit.

John spread his finger's apart just enough to glance over at the clock.

8:24

 _“Fffffffuuuuu-!”_ He threw the blankets back and leapt out of bed, grabbing his dressing gown off the door handle and rushing towards the shower.

 _'Son of a BITCH,'_ he thought as he closed and locked the door. He was due at the clinic at 8:30; Sarah was going to absolutely ream him.

He flung off his shirt and started the water running; looks like he's going to have to multitask and shave and brush his teeth while in there, too.

John was just shedding himself of his sleeping pants when the front hem caught on his...

On his erection.

His. Erection.

_'Oh, GOD...'_

_'No,'_ he thought, panicking. _'No, nononononononoNO!'_ It was NOT because of that dream; absolutely _not_. It was his regular morning stiff (that hadn't made an appearance in a couple of weeks, admittedly); the fact that he'd had a really, REALLY kinky dream about his flatmate (his _male_ flatmate) had nothing at all to do with it.

He groaned. _'Fuck me...Just. Fuck. Me.'_

John jumped in the shower and took care of himself (he skipped the shave in favor of brushing his teeth; his hand had become confused and he'd nearly taken his tongue off), and was dressed and downstairs ten minutes later.

He walked into the kitchen where, surprise-surprise, he found Sherlock, who appeared to have been up for quite some time already. Impeccably dressed in one of his tailored suits' (as always), the man was sat at the table, clacking away on John's laptop, with John's phone lying next to it.

“How long you been up?”

“Hmmm,” was the only reply, Sherlock never taking his eyes away from the screen.

“I’ll take that as ‘awhile’, then…” John sighed. “Eaten anything yet?”

Another noncommittal noise.

John was about to make a snarky reply about not being his caretaker, when the irony struck him.

And along with that, the realization; _‘This could be a test…’_

“All right,” he said, in the best ‘Daddy’ tone he could muster. “I’m late, so I don’t have time for this. Look at me.”  
Sherlock’s finger froze over the keys, and John caught the slight tensing of his back and shoulder’s.

He really hoped this was a good idea.

The other man slowly turned in his seat, and faced John with a bemused expression.

_‘He IS testing me…’_

Well, two can play at this game.

“I told you last night that you have to behave yourself while I’m gone; I want you to eat something…something _substantial_ ,” he added quickly, “and then I want you to take a nap, since I highly doubt you slept at all last night.”

Sherlock blinked owlishly.

“I mean it. Do you understand me?”

The man nodded.

“Good boy. I’ll be back later.” John grabbed his jacket and was out the door.

Had he turned to look back, he would have thought the smirk spreading across Sherlock’s face to be a very mischievous one, indeed.

*******

Even as late as he was, Sarah didn’t throw as much of a hissy as he thought she would. All he really had to do was shrug apologetically and say “Sher-,”, and she held her hand up…”Ah, say no more, just get to it already.”

All in all, it was a terribly slow day-couple of kids’ with snotty noses’, a man with a sprained elbow, and old woman with a migraine…that was about it.

“Might as well have called in sick,” he groused to himself.

During his break, he tried texting Sherlock.

_Have you eaten yet? JW_

A reply came in seconds.

_Not yet, John. SH_

_You’d better…I’d hate to start the weekend off the wrong way. JW_

This time, the reply wasn’t as quick.

_Yes…Daddy. SH_

John grinned as he glanced down at his phone.

Suddenly, he had the most wonderfully brilliant idea he’d ever had, and the end of his shift couldn’t come soon enough. He would’ve asked Sarah if he could clear out early…but after showing up late this morning (and it wasn’t the first time, honestly), that probably wouldn’t end well.

The rest of the day dragged by at an agonizing pace. The very second the clock ticked to 5:00, John was throwing on his coat and heading out the door while tossing a quick “Bye!” at Sarah over his shoulder.

Instead of going straight home, John took a detour into town. His dream (the one that did NOT give him a hard-on; it _didn’t_ ), had given him a fantastic idea, and he headed straight for the nearest toy store, hoping to hell that they’d have what he was looking for.

*******

He fumbled with the keys’ in one hand; the other busy trying to keep the fairly large, prettily wrapped box balanced on his hip. That, and the fact that he was extremely excited that he’d found what he was looking for, and being equally excited to get home and show it to Sherlock.

Sherlock may not put much stock into sentiments and the like…but John did, and he was eager to see what reaction he would receive. He grinned to himself.

John finally managed to find the right key and made his way up to the flat. Pushing the door open with his hip, he called out, “Sherlock, I’ve got a surprise…for…you…” He let his sentence trail off as he surveyed the sitting room...well, he _guessed_ the sitting room was still there.

There were packages _everywhere_ , most of them already opened; the contents strewn all over. Big, fuzzy blankets in varying shades of blue, some with cartoon characters, piles upon piles of clothes-John picked up a shirt that had been flung across the back of the sofa. White, with a giant, smiling bumblebee on it…and of course, it was adult-sized. John didn’t have to be a consulting detective to figure that they probably all were.

Then, John noticed the toys…teddy bears and stuffed animals of every shape and size, and rubber balls and toy trucks, and too many other’s to count (John cast a quick glance about, worried that he’d see a copy of his present among all the mess, but thankfully, he didn’t. Doesn’t mean there might not be one buried under something, though…), all scattered amongst the rest of the lot.

And there, right in the midst of the adult-sized kiddy hurricane, was Sherlock.

His hand was poised over another box sitting in his lap; John’s entrance had obviously interrupted him. His eyes’ had a wide, ‘Oh-you’re-home’ look.

“John, you’re home? I didn’t expect you so early.”

“Early???” John sputtered, still somewhat in shock. “It’s already six o’clock! And where in the _hell_ did all this come from?!”

Instead of answering, Sherlock simply pulled his own phone out of his pocket-

_‘All by himself, for once…git.'_

-and looked at the screen.

“Oh…so it is. Apologies, John…I meant to have this cleaned up before you arrived. I became…distracted.”

John snorted. “I wonder why. And that didn’t answer my question…Where. Did. This. Come. From.”

The other man cleared his throat. “I…I ordered it.”

He was at a loss for words…but found some anyway. “When in the hell did you order it?!”

“Last night. There are certain specialty shops all over London, John…pay enough for a rush order, and anything can be available in mere hours.”

“Last night…” John repeated, trying to grasp the situation. “Last night,” he said again, and looked over into the kitchen-where his laptop was still sitting.

_Click._

(And that, ladies and gentlemen, was the sound of everything clicking into place.)

“You…came into MY room, took MY computer, stayed up all night ordering all this…where, where did you get the money for all this, anyway?”

Sherlock looked down at his hands, folded in his lap, then peered up at John through his eyelashes.

‘Ah, Mycroft, of course,” John said, rubbing his hand over his face. “So, adding that to the list, along with pilfering through my thing’s…” John paused.

“Wait…you were in _my_ room. My. Room….Did you turn off my alarm? _Again?_ ” His eyes narrowed at the detective, who was still sitting cross-legged in the floor, and his hands went to his hips.

Sherlock blanched.

_‘Oh, you little...’_

That’s it.

“You. Stand up. Right now.”

The other man hesitated, the briefest flicker of worry in his eyes.

“Oh, no…you were just itching to get the weekend started? Well, now you’re getting it. Do what Daddy said, and _come here._ ”

A little bit of the tension seemed to ease out of Sherlock’s frame when John said ‘Daddy’, he noted.

The man looked slightly ridiculous, standing there smack in the middle of a mountain of toy’s and kiddy clothes, quite at a loss of what to do with himself; he looked EXACTLY like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. John would have laughed, were he not _extremely_ fucking annoyed.

Sherlock still hadn’t moved, and John was NOT going to play another ‘guess me’ game like last night. He snapped his fingers and pointed to a spot on the floor in front of him.

“Right here, before I count to three.”

“One…”

Sherlock looked from the mess, to John, then back to the mess, unsure.

“Two…”

He bit his lip, still deciding.

“Th-…”

Sherlock was up and over the couch, standing right where John had pointed before the second syllable passed his lips.

John’s hands were back at his hips, and even with being on the wrong end of the height difference, manage to feel as if he were staring down hard at his naughty detective.

The man could only meet John’s stare for a moment before dropping his own gaze to the floor, hands clasped behind his back.

“…What’s that?”

“Hmm?” John looked down at whatever Sherlock was staring at.

Sherlock bent down to pick up John’s package, forgotten at his feet.

“That,” he said, taking it out of the other man’s hands and setting it aside, “Was supposed to be a surprise. A surprise for _you._ ”

“For me?”

“Yes, for you…but I don’t know if I should give it to you now.”

Sherlock’s jaw dropped. “But John!...” he began to protest.

“No ‘buts’,” John snapped. “You, young man, are in some serious trouble!”

His mouth opened to protest again, but quickly shut it when he saw the expression on John’s face.

“You just couldn’t wait, could you? What did I say last night, hm? What did I say you had to do today?”

Sherlock’s lips tightened into a thin line, and for a second, John worried that he was changing his mind about this whole set-up.

“You told me that I had to behave, and do as you said…” came a mumbled reply.

_‘Game on, then.’_

“Well, you don’t seem to have any problems with your hearing or memory…so that means you knew what you were supposed to do, and simply didn’t.”

Sherlock flushed and looked back down at his hands, which were now fiddling with a button on his shirt.

John sighed. “Did you do _anything_ that I told you to do this morning? Did you ever eat any lunch?”

Sherlock shook his head without looking up.

“Did you take a nap?”

Another shake of the head.

John took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “Well, that is _very_ disappointing.”

Sherlock flinched.

“Well, I happen to know exactly what to do with naughty boys’ who don’t listen to their Daddies.”

The detective’s head snapped up at that, brow furrowing.

Not wanting to waste any more time, John grabbed Sherlock by the wrist, pulling him into the kitchen.

“…What are you doing, John?” There was a high note of uncertainty in the usually deep voice.

“What I should have started with yesterday,” he said, pulling one of the chairs out into the middle of the floor. “You’re getting a spanking.”

Sherlock was finally beginning to grasp the direness of his situation. “Wait, John, no! You can’t…!”

John sat, still gripping Sherlock’s wrist. “First off, it’s ‘Daddy’ from here on out…and secondly, yes, Daddy’s going to spank you.”

Honestly, he could think of no one more deserving, _ever_ , and with this ageplay thing, the man had pretty much handed John the opportunity on a silver platter.

He began to tug Sherlock over his lap.

The man balked and pulled back.

“But, _Jawwwwn!_...” Whinging, the last ditch effort.

And he was still calling him ‘John’.

He did remember reading about a thing called ‘headspace’ last night…some people apparently needed something to push them into the right mindset for this kinda thing. Maybe that’s what Sherlock needed.

But how?

He decided to try something a little drastic.

John turned him to the side and landed and good, solid smack to his flatmate’s arse.

Sherlock gasped at the suddenness of it, and abruptly stuck out his bottom lip.

_‘Well, that worked.’_

“What’s my name, Sherlock?” He hoped his ‘Dad’ voice was up to par.

He heard a sniff. “D…daddy,” came a surprisingly small-sounding reply.

“That’s right, and Daddy is NOT happy with the way you’ve behaved, young man. So, what is Daddy going to do?”

He watched his boys’ (he _had_ to think of him like that now) throat bob as he swallowed, hard.

“Spank me?” he whimpered.

John didn’t even know that Sherlock was even capable of whimpering.

“Right again. Now, start being a good boy and bend over my lap.” He began to pull at his wrist again.

The man ( _boy_ …John HAD to keep that in mind) pulled back again. “But I don’t want a spanking!!!”

John had had it at this point. “Ok, that’s it.”

He stood quickly, still holding onto Sherlock, and turned him to the side again, bracing his arm against the man’s (BOY’S!) chest, before delivering a flurry of swats to the seat of his trousers.

Sherlock yelped and twisted, trying to avoid his hand, but John had a firm, military-grade hold on him.

“Are you going to listen to Daddy now?” he asked, punctuating each word with a sharp smack.

“ ** _Ow_** , yes, yes! Please, Daddy, stop!” was the strained reply.

He gave one last hard swat, and sat back down. He let go of Sherlock’s wrist, and instead grabbed the boy’s hips, and moved him to stand between his knees.

John looked up at him with what he hoped was a stern enough expression. There were no tears yet, but if the reddened cheeks and wobbly lip were any indication…they weren’t far off.

And it amazed John to no end that _he_ was the one to get him there.

But, as much as John would love to sit there and study every aspect of this astounding transformation, he still had a job to do.

Sherlock was biting his lip and sniveling under John’s gaze, and quite obviously didn’t want to look him in the eye.

“Sherlock…”

_‘Keep the tone firm; not too harsh, not too gentle…’_

Bright blue eyes met his.

“Why is Daddy going to spank you?”

He watched as his boy swallowed hard again, took a deep breath, and let it out, shakily.

“For…for not obeying you,” his voice cracking at the end.

“Exactly,” John took Sherlock’s hands and held them between his. “I know you were excited about getting all this together…but I wanted to wait until we could _both_ sit down and pick out clothes and toys and all that business, together,” A bit of his disappointment leeched into his words.

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “You did?”

“Of course I did…believe it or not, Sherlock, I was actually kind of looking forward to it.”

His boy’s bottom lip quivered. “But that’s why I wanted you to stay home today! You did the last time you overslept!”

It was John’s turn to let his mouth drop open. “That’s why you turned off my alarm? Sherlock, you can’t just do things like that!...”

The bottom lip was stuck back out. “Sorry, Daddy…”he whispered.

John sighed. “We are going to discuss that in detail later, young man…but you’re still getting a spanking.”

He let go of Sherlock’s hands and went to undo the button of his trousers’. Those hands immediately flew back to stop him, but John slapped them away. “You keep those out of my way, boy, or they’ll get smacked, too!”

A whine caught in Sherlock’s throat as he put his hands onto Johns’ shoulders’ to steady himself as his trousers’ were jerked down to his knees.

John paused for a moment, just to truly absorb the situation. Here was Sherlock Holmes, his flatmate, his friend, standing there in nothing but his shirt and pants, waiting for John to take him over his knee and spank him like a naughty child.

This, this moment right here, was the point of no return. There would be no going back to ‘normal’ afterwards.

Another beat of pause…and then John hooked his thumbs into the elastic waistband of Sherlock’s pants, and they joined his trousers.

And then, there it was, staring him right in the face…Sherlock’s now semi-erect cock. John looked up at the man’s face, which was now beet-red. The second his eyes met John’s, his head snapped down.

John took one more glance, said not a word, and promptly jerked Sherlock down over his lap.

The distracted detective stumbled and yelped at the upset, trying to retain his balance to no avail.

John could handle him easily enough; the man ( _BOY!_ ) weighed next to nothing, and it was no time at all until John had him right where he wanted him…bum draped over his right knee, dead center, upper torso resting comfortably-

_‘For me, at least.’_

-over his left leg, and his left arm across Sherlock’s back.

This time, the height difference (as well as Sherlock’s general gangliness) DID make the position a tad awkward, and John made a mental note to look for a bar chair or something for future occasions.

Sherlock glanced back over his shoulder, peering up at John. “Daddy?”

He rested his hand against his boy’s bum; there were a few pinkish marks from John’s previous admonishments. Sherlock flinched.

“Yes?”

“You’ve made your point; I’ll send everything back tomorrow, I promise!”

John let himself grin, knowing Sherlock couldn’t see him that clearly.

“Hmm…we’ll talk about that,” He watched as Sherlock slumped, relieved.

“ _After_ your spanking.”

John raised his hand and brought it down against the upturned bottom.

It wasn’t a particularly hard smack, but it was sharp, and Sherlock hadn’t been expecting it. He yelped and lurched forward.

“ _Owww!_ Oh please, Daddy…not that hard!”

John inspected the slightly darker mark he’d left. “We’re just getting started, I’m afraid,” and proceeded to smack the other cheek, garnering another yelp.

He really wasn’t spanking all that hard yet, and even after the short warm-up over his trousers’, Sherlock’s reactions were a bit puzzling.

Ah, wait…”Have you ever been spanked before, Sherlock?” He kicked himself mentally for not thinking to ask sooner.

He heard a loud sniff. “ _Noooo…_ ” the detective whinged.

_‘MAN, he can really play the part. Well, when in Rome…’_

**SMACK!** “No, what?” he snapped.

“Ow- _wuhhh_! No, _Daddy_ , sorry!”

“What, all those nurses and nannies, and not one of them took you to hand?” Another hard **SMACK!**

Sherlock shrieked, followed by deep, choked sob. “They were all scared too,” he said when he finally got his breath.

_‘Ah, that makes sense…’_

“Well, that is going to change, young man…Daddy will not hesitate to bare your bum for a good smack from now on; do you hear me?”

A shaky voice replied, “Ye-es, s-sir…”

John nodded, satisfied. “Good boy...” and the spanking began in earnest.

For the first few smacks, there was an individual cry of ‘OW!’ for each one, along with a kick of a leg…but after the first dozen or so, Sherlock’s bum was no longer just pink, and he was clearly beginning to become desperate.

“Dadd- _eee_ , _please_ , I’m sorr _eeee!_ ” he wailed, both legs kicking out now, hips bucking and twisting all over John’s lap to avoid the onslaught of his palm.

“I know you are, but you need to know what happens to little boy’s when they’re naughty,” John said, lightening up his tone a bit. Sherlock’s bum was now a vibrant shade of scarlet, but John wanted one more breakthrough before he finished up…and he had a pretty good idea of what would do it.

“Daddy is so very, _very_ disappointed in his boy,” he scolded, aiming for the lower parts of Sherlock’s bottom, near the tops of his thighs.

It did the trick, just as he’d hoped.

The last bit of resolve in Sherlock broke, in the form of one long, continuous wail as his body went limp.

John carried on spanking for another minute or so longer, just to be sure that this wasn’t a case of the crocodile tears’ that he’d seen Sherlock pull off many a time.

When he finally stopped and rested his palm against the thoroughly heated flesh, he could feel the sobs wracking through his boys’ body, and couldn’t help but feel a twinge of guilt.

Had he overdone it?

John let him lay there for a little while, rubbing small circles along his back and shushing him gently.

He leaned forward a bit until he was next to Sherlock’s ear; he tucked a loose curl behind it and murmured, “ _Shhh_ , it’s okay…it’s all over, Sherly. We’re done.”

This seemed to help calm him down a touch more, and John gently slid Sherlock’s lower half off of his lap so that he was kneeling in front of him.

John cupped his boys’ face in his hand, and just as he had the night before, raised his face to meet his own.

Apparently, he’d been very effective. Ruddy cheeks covered in tear tracks, with one or two stray tears still making their way down, a runny nose, and very red-rimmed, glistening eyes greeted him. Every so often, a suppressed sob shook the thin frame before him and was followed with a hiccup.

It was the saddest, most pitiful expression John had ever seen…and dammit, it was absolutely adorable on this man.

John smiled, then leaned forward and planted a kiss on Sherlock’s forehead before pulling him to his chest in a tight embrace. He felt long arm’s encircle his waist just as tightly as Sherlock buried his face into the crook of Johns’ neck, drying the last of his tears.

They were both silent, except for the occasional hitch in Sherlock’s breathing, for several minutes…then, just as John was about to suggest they get ready for bed and leave the mess for in the morning, the other man spoke.

“…I thought you were going to leave.”

It was muffled so much by Johns’ jumper, he wasn’t even sure he’d heard correctly. He pulled back so he could see Sherlock’s face.

“What?”

Sherlock’s expression was blank; the detective was already back-never mind the fact that he was kneeling in the kitchen floor with his bare arse covered in John’s handprints and his pants around his ankles.

“What on earth are you talking about, Sherlock?”

“When you came through the door and saw everything, your expression was…You know, you don’t have to play along just to appease me, John. You’re free to leave whenever you’d like.”

John sat there, speechless…then he burst out laughing, and for the love of all that is holy, couldn’t stop.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, but otherwise remained stone-faced.

“You can be so bloody thick sometimes, you know that?” John managed to gasp.

The other man pulled away from him, clearly offended. “I would hardly call that ‘thick’, John! Anyone else-“

John reached out and put a finger to those indignant lips, silencing what was sure to be an exhaustingly long-winded rant that he would barely get the gist of.

“In case you hadn’t noticed, _detective_ …I’m not just ‘anyone’,” he said, calmly. “We have been chased, shot at, threatened, drugged, mugged, spied on, kidnapped, and God only knows what all else. I _shot_ a man, for _you_ , when we’d only just met. Why in the hell would I leave now, just because you want a chance to relax and feel like a kid again? Shit, you already acted like one; what’s the big deal about treating you like it?”

He moved his finger away, and Sherlock stayed silent. John could practically see the gears turning as he processed what he’d just heard.

“But the others’…” he began.

John cut him off again. “I just told you, Sherlock,” he said, rubbing his hand through his hair and down his neck. “I’m _not_ them. I’m not anyone else. I’m John. And now, I’m Daddy, whenever you need me to be.”

Sherlock sat back on his haunches (gingerly) and closed his eyes.

John waited. Any sort of information with an emotional aspect always took Sherlock longer to factor in…and this was some pretty heavy stuff.

When the detective opened his eyes once again, John met them, and stilled.

The _look_ he was seeing; the pure, raw _feeling_ pouring out of them…the relief he saw; the…the _love_ ….it took the breath right out of him.

Sherlock spoke.

“Thank you,” his voice thick and heavy.

John felt tears prick his own eyes, and he swallowed them back.

“Anytime,” he said with a lop-sided smile, his own voice husky-sounding, as well.

A moment later, he stood…the last thing he wanted was to stretch out a beautiful moment like that into awkwardness. He held out his hand.

“C’mon, you can show me your new toys while we clean up.”

Sherlock took the proffered hand and hoisted himself up. “So…does that mean I don’t have to return everything?”

“Pffffft,” John huffed. “It’s already here; why not?”

Sherlock smiled and began redressing himself, hissing as the fabric of his pants brushed over his arse. He bent to gather up his trousers, but changed his mind and stepped out of them instead, picking them up and draping them over his arm.

He looked over at John, who’d been watching the whole affair with a satisfied smirk.

The color in Sherlock’s cheeks returned (the cheeks on his face…the color from the lower ones’ hadn’t even begun to fade), and he gave John a sheepish look.

“They would have been too tight…”

John chuckled. “I guess we know that Daddy doesn’t play around, does he?”

Sherlock frowned and reached back to rub his bum. “You’re enjoying this part entirely too much, _Jawn!_ ”

John had to bite his lip to keep from saying the first response that popped into his head, as the image of Sherlock’s half hard cock and his own dream (he begrudgingly admitted that there had to be something more to it, now) danced back into his forethoughts.

What he wanted to say was, ‘Well, so did you.’

What he said instead; “Come on, show me the stuff already, eh?”

John followed Sherlock into the sitting room, unashamedly admiring his “handiwork”.

For having the physique of a bean-pole, the man certainly had a cute little rounded bum.

Especially with a lovely pink glow.

 _‘Heh, A Study in Pink,’_ ….John bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

But he wasn’t quite successful…a small snort escaped him, and Sherlock whipped his head around, saw John’s struggle, and wrinkled his nose.

“Shut up,” he snapped, and whirled back around.

John lost it.

He hoped the rest of the evening would be this much fun.


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Read at your own risk; I am NOT accepting responsiblity for you developing diabetes.

They started with the clothes; Sherlock picking up each item and explaining to John (in great detail) why he’d picked it among the multitude of choices before tossing it to him to fold and set aside neatly.

And it wasn’t just shirts and short pants, John noticed…Sherlock had also purchased a number of pants styled after young boy’s briefs, in all sorts of colors and patterns.

He had to admit, when he’d seen those styles of clothing listed on the sites Sherlock pulled up…the frilly knickers and plastic pants and the like…they’d seemed a bit creepy. Children’s underthings in adult sizes?

But now, seeing the absolute child-like _glee_ as he went through each item…well, John didn’t see anything creepy at all anymore. He sat and watched, silently for the most part, unless Sherlock asked what he thought about a particular item (the bee shirt was his favorite, so far…Sherlock beamed).

The next thing the man held up, though, had John collapsing to the floor, clutching his sides, tears rolling down his own cheeks, and trying to remind himself that it _was_ medically possible to laugh yourself to death.

Sherlock was holding a pair of fleece, footed pajamas designed to look like…well, to look like a big treasure map.

They were a tan color, made to look like aged parchment, with palm trees, cliffs, beaches, writing in a fancy, pirate-esque script…thing’s you see on any treasure map in the movies.

But the best part, that John took great amusement in, was the dotted line that started at one foot and traveled up, wrapping around the hips and making a few twists and turns all over, before coming to stop at a big, red **X** on the left side of the chest.

Right where Sherlock’s heart is.

“Oh, Sherlock,” he gasped, trying to catch his breath. “Sherlock, you have to put those on, right now!”

The other man looked at the doctor had just suggested he ring up Anderson and invite him out for a pint.

“They haven’t even been _washed_ , John!”

John, however, had gathered a bit more composure. “Oh, come _off_ it...those are brand-new! Wear them tonight, and we’ll wash them with everything else tomorrow.”

Sherlock still looked as if he’d rather do Lestrade’s bitchwork for the next month, instead.

“Please, for me?”

The skeptical look softened and shifted. The detective looked at the pajamas, contemplating, and then cast a sideways glance at John. “Promise you won’t laugh like that again once I’m in them?”

John coughed, forcing the last giggle out of his system. He looked back up at his friend and smiled warmly. “I swear, Sherlock, I won’t laugh…and I wasn’t laughing _at_ you, honestly.”

An eyebrow cocked up at that.

“Seriously! It’s just that, well….those are just, just…so ‘you’. So perfectly _you_.”

Sherlock smiled shyly at that. “Okay,” he said at last, and stepped towards the stairs.

John stopped him as he passed, taking his free hand. “No, just change here.”

“…Here?”

“Yes, here.”

Sherlock looked apprehensively about the room, then back down at John.

 _‘He’s actually being shy,’_ John realized.

Shy…that was another word he’d never have used to describe this man with.

Wasn’t he just chock full of surprises lately?

“C’mon,” he coaxed, gently. “It’s just us. Plus, I just spanked your bare bum not too long ago…I don’t think seeing you change clothes is going to be that much of a surprise."

The other man hesitated slightly; then nodded, slowly.

“That’s my good boy,” John said, standing. He pushed aside a pile of folded clothes and stuffed animals on the sofa and sat, watching.

Sherlock laid the pajamas on the floor and eased his pants down, obviously glad to be rid of the chafing material. He tossed them aside.

John thought briefly about admonishing him for that, but he just couldn’t be bothered at this point.

He really, _really_ wanted to see Sherlock in those pajamas already.

The detective was now removing his shirt at a dreadfully slow pace, as if his fingers had completely forgotten how to work a damn button.

John was nothing if not patient, though.

At last, the man stood stark naked in the middle of the room, looking as if he felt quite small, indeed.

Well, not _all_ of him looked small.

His cock hung between his legs; limp now, but heavy-looking.

_‘He’s definitely got braggin’ rights…’_

John didn’t even realize he was staring until a voice snapped him out of his reverie.

“…Daddy?”

“Hmm?” he grunted, looking to Sherlock’s face and trying desperately to act like he hadn’t just been utterly focused on his flatmates’ dick.

_‘The FUCK is wrong with me???’_

Sherlock held the pajamas out towards him.

“Help me?” he asked; an adorably helpless look on his face.

It was amazing, truly amazing, how the man could switch from adult to small child so quickly…he’d read that it took some people _ages_ to go from big to little.

Then again…this IS Sherlock he was talking about.

John grinned and crooked his finger at the man. “Alright, come here.”

The shy smile came back as he stepped over to John, handing him the bundle of cloth.

Luckily, they were the kind that zipped up the front…nothing too complicated. He unzipped them and held up one foot.

“Okay…hold onto Daddy and step in, quickly, before you get cold.”

Sherlock placed his hands upon John’s shoulder’s again, just as he’d done when he’d gotten his trousers’ taken down, and stepped in.

“I’m still warm from earlier,” he pouted.

John clucked his tongue. “Tsk…you know you deserved every bit of that, young man.” He held the other foot up, and Sherlock stepped into that one as well, his bottom lip poking out again.

Being very careful not to catch anything in the teeth, John stood and zipped him up, helping him work his arms into the sleeves along the way.

He stepped back and looked his boy up and down. “That…those are the cutest things, Sherlock, honestly,” he said with a chuckle.

Sherlock grinned and ran his hands down the front, feeling the soft fabric.

“Turn around and let Daddy see the back now…”

He did, turning slowly so John could get all the details, and when he finally saw the back, he let out an excited “Oh!”

“What, Daddy?”

John was giggling hysterically again; he couldn’t help it, this was just too damn _perfect_.

“Sherlock…they have a dropseat!”

There was a huff of air. “Well, of _course_ they do…I knew that when I ordered them.”

“Well, _I_ didn’t, so watch your tone or we’ll make use of it right now,” the warning very clear in his intent.

The attitude melted away instantly, and Sherlock turned back around, head bowed.

“Sorry, Daddy,” he whispered.

John smiled again. “That’s my sweet boy.” He sat, tugging Sherlock’s wrist lightly. “Here, sit with me for a moment.”

Sherlock, surprisingly, let himself be guided into John’s lap; his back, supported by the arm of the couch, as well as John’s arm, was comfortable enough, and he curled his legs onto the empty cushion beside them.

They sat silently, both deep in their own thoughts, respectively. John thought about how sweet and cozy this was, and how he was really starting to love this side of his friend, while Sherlock thought about…

“What _is_ in that box, anyway?”

“Eh?” John murmured, looking in the direction Sherlock pointed. It was the package he’d brought home, cast aside and forgotten in the whole ordeal, and looking very lonely all by itself.

“Ah, that…I told you, it’s a surprise I picked out for you, but I don’t know if I should let you open it after the way you’ve behaved.”

Sherlock sat up and looked at him, eyes wide and pleading. “But, you already punished me!”

“True, but I still don’t know if you deserve a reward tonight, either…”

Dejected, Sherlock folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against John, pouting slightly.

God, was this man ever good at pouting.

“Hmm,” John hummed, pressing a finger to his lips into one of Sherlock’s exaggerated ‘thinking’ poses.

Sherlock peered up at him, looking hopeful.

“I’ll tell you what…if you promise to be a good boy and not put up a fuss at bedtime, you can open it.”

The detectives face lit up. “Yes, yes, I promise!” he exclaimed as he bounced in John’s lap.

Which, it was precious and cute and all…but even with a little round bum, Sherlock was still _bony_.

Laughing again, all John could get out was “Okay, okay…!” before Sherlock pounced on the box and ripped into it.

“Make a mess, and you’ll be cleaning it up,” he scolded, playfully.

If the giant five year old heard him, he didn’t show it; he was too busy stripping away wrapping paper and pulling at the cardboard lid to notice.

The lid was flung aside, and Sherlock pulled out his prize.

“…Do you like it?” John asked.

Sherlock sat looking at the small, brown and white plush bulldog, complete with black leather collar, sitting in his lap.

John had been ecstatic to find one; it was almost a carbon copy of the one Sherlock had been clutching in his dream.

Sherlock hadn’t said a word, though…did he think it a stupid gesture?

Before he could ask again, Sherlock gathered up his new toy, and crawled back to settle in John’s lap, hugging it to his chest.

“I love it…thank you, Daddy.”

John beamed and pressed a kiss to the top of his boy’s head. “You’re very welcome…So, what are you going to name him, hm?”

Sherlock held him up at arms length, pondering.

“How about Spot?” John suggested.

He got a frown and shake of the head for his trouble.

“Rover?”

Another shake.

“What about Fido, then?” He was having a bit of fun with this, now.

A snort. “Those names are _boring_ , John. He needs an unusual name, like mine.”

“Can’t argue with that logic.”

Sherlock stared at his new little furry friend for a long while, and then…

“Gladstone.”

“Gladstone?”

He nodded. “Gladstone.”

John chuckled. “I think that’s a fine name.”

Sherlock grinned and hugged Gladstone back to his chest, while snuggling tighter back against Johns'.

They sat like that, comfy and cozy, for a good bit of time, until John’s head snapped up.

He hadn’t even realized he’d been dozing.

“Mm, c’mon,” he sighed, patting Sherlocks' hip. “It’s bedtime.”

He heard a small whinge. “Ah-ah, remember what you promised?”

A sigh. Then, Sherlock hauled himself up, resentful of being forced out of his soft, warm jumper-nest.

He held Gladstone by one paw and rubbed his eye with his free hand. “Would you….would you tuck me in?” he asked, looking a touch forlorn.

As if there was any chance in hell John would say ‘No’ to that look.

John rubbed his own face; it had certainly been a long day, for both of them.

“Of course,” He stood. “Go on up.”

Sherlock shuffled up the stairs, with John shuffling right after. They reached his bedroom and John went in first, turning on the bedside lamp and pulling back the covers.

With Gladstone in tow, Sherlock crawled in and John made sure to tuck in the blankets around him nice and snug.

“Goodnight, Sherlock,” he whispered as he leaned over to kiss his forehead.

Sherlock smiled, and was going to answer him back, but a yawn interrupted him.

“I knew someone was tired,” John teased lightly, then clicked off the lamp and made his way (carefully) around the piles of books to the doorway.

He was just about to pull the door shut behind him, when he heard a voice out of the dark.

“John?”

“Yeah?”

“…Thank you, again, for everything. It’s been so much more than I ever imagined.”

John smiled-he was certainly doing a lot of that tonight-and said, “You are more than welcome, Sherlock…thank _you_ for sharing it with me.”

Another yawn made its way out of the room, and John grinned as he said “Goodnight, Sherlock,” one more time before pulling the door to, leaving it open a crack.

“Goodnight, Daddy.”

*******

Later, after he’d changed and gotten settled in his own bed, John lay there; thoughts and images of tonight’s events still whirling though his mind.

The beginning of Sherlock’s spanking replayed itself the most, though….especially the part when John tugged his pants down and was nearly smacked in the face by his flatmates' member.

 _‘So’_ he thought. _‘Even after all that fuss about me not being gay, and this not being a fetish for him, our bodies have betrayed us both.’_

_‘….How in the fuck are we going to handle this?’_

John flopped over onto his side, staring at the door.

He ran through several ways of how to approach the topic with Sherlock (it _would_ have to be discussed, now), each one sounding more awkward than the last.

 _‘Fuck it,’_ he told himself, finally. _‘We’ll figure it out later._ ’

He was finally starting to relax enough to drift off, when a little, niggling thought wormed its way up out of the drowsy dredges of his mind.

John’s eyes flew open…

Dear God, he _hoped_ that Sherlock had been able to get Mrs. Hudson out before he got home.


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know....everyone's thinking "ABOUT TIME!" Sorry, sorry everyone...I got caught up working on vanilla projects for publishing, and they got the best of me for awhile, but I'm back!

John awoke peacefully, for once—no nightmares, no kinky dreams, no blaring alarms—just the quiet, black, all-engulfing unconsciousness, and then he was blinking against the bright sunlight filtering in through his curtains.

As he lay there, stretching out the last few moments of tranquility that followed a good nights’ rest and letting his worn body enjoy the swaddling of warm blankets…he became aware of a small, barely audible noise coming from behind him.

He also became aware of the additional weight making the mattress bow.

Hm…he wasn’t alone.

John turned as slow as he possibly could, desperately trying not to wake disturb his mystery guest.

_‘As if it’s that big of a mystery.’_

Finally, he found himself face-to-face with his still-sleeping cohort, and found the source of the noise; Sherlock was lying on his belly, with one arm tucked underneath his chest and the other curled around Gladstone, tucking the small dog tightly to the crook of his neck… _sucking_ his thumb.

_‘Oh...My...God.’_

John bit his lip to keep from giggling; he had no idea if Sherlock was a light sleeper or not, and he didn’t want the sound or the shaking from his suppressed laughter to awaken him.

He was also wondering where in the hell his phone was…this would make for an absolutely classic picture.

It was almost _too_ perfect, though, and John watched for any little tell-tale signs of feigned sleep. But no…Sherlock’s breathing was slow and deep, and the doctor could make out the rapid movement of his eyes behind closed lids; he was deeply asleep, and dreaming as well.

John smiled and stretched carefully before reaching back to his nightstand for his phone; he couldn’t help it, he _had_ to snap a quick picture.

_‘Shit, where is it?’_

It was nowhere to be felt behind him, so he slowly propped up on one elbow and glanced about the room—Ah, there it was…across the room, over on his dresser.

Where he personally _never_ put it.

John smirked and glanced down at his laughably devious bunkmate, who was still sucking away and looking for all the world an innocent babe.

 _‘Little shit,'_ he thought with a grin.

He had half a mind to go and get it…but his bed just felt too wonderful to be bothered with leaving just yet. So, he gently lowered himself back down and watched his ‘little boy’ sleep.

He noticed then that it was becoming increasingly easier to think of the man that way, as ‘his boy’…especially when he looked this sweet.

Sherlocks’ lips were wrapped around the base of his thumb, with a little bit of drool collecting at the corners as his jaw muscles twitched slightly under pale, smooth skin.

As John lay there, watching those lips and jaw working in tandem, an all-too-familiar feeling washed over him…he groaned internally.

_‘Fuck.’_

He…was hard again.

Honestly…there _had_ to be something wrong with him.

And to top it all off…now he had to pee.

The doctor began sliding his lower half out of bed, inch by agonizing inch. He glanced back once, making damn sure to not jostle the other awake…

The mattress squeaked.

He froze, one foot on the floor.

Sherlock frowned slightly and made a little noise in his throat, halfway between a whimper and a whinge; his thumb never strayed from its designated place, though. Soon, his features smoothed back out as the stirring detective settled back down and drew his knees up to his chest.

John let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding; _‘Jesus, it’s like sleeping with a live bomb!’_

Instead of standing, he slid the rest of the way onto the floor to keep the pressure steady and once he was clear, exhaled a sigh of relief, and _then_ stood. He stretched again, joints and back popping in an almost-pleasant way…until his shoulder decided to cry out in protest, at least. He jerked at the sudden sharp pain and began to knead it, wondering why in the hell did it hurt so much this morning…?

Oh.

_Oh._

It _did_ get quite a workout last night; John grinned smugly.

He padded over to the door and eased it open, thanking God for small miracles when the hinges stayed silent, and slipped into the hallway, easing it shut just as carefully as he’d opened it.

Steady hands; just one of the many benefits of medical training.

He made his way down the hall to the bog and noticed, with light dismay, that he was still rock-hard and tenting the front of his boxers. He groused; he was not in the mood to try and play Chinese acrobat with the toilet while peeing with an erection.

Well, there was a way of fixing that…and it _had _been awhile since his last good wank.__

He made sure the door was locked, went to take down his pants, double-checked the door, triple-checked it, then shucked his pants to the floor and started the shower tap.

Throwing off his shirt next, John stepped into the spray, letting the warm water run down his body and relax his stiffened muscles…

Speaking of stiff…

He lathered some soap in his hand and reached down to grasp himself. He let his mind wander into that special place; the one that housed his favorite fantasies…Sherlock had his ‘mind palace, John had his ‘wank bank’.

Sarah was first; he pictured the first time they’d slept together, as she slowly opened her blouse…each button that popped loose revealing more of her white, lacy bra, while the dark of her nipples peeked through…

John groaned lightly, his fist moving at an even pace.

The image of Sarah, finally relieved of her shirt, began sliding the straps of her bra down her shoulders, eyes never leaving his, lips parted slightly as she leaned forward…

And then he was staring at Molly, in all of her wide-eyed innocence that John adored, lowering to her knees and undoing his trousers…his cock sprang free and she let out a little gasp, then bent towards it; she stopped, looking up to him with that unsure, pleading expression, as if to ask him if it was okay to touch his cock. He gave a tight nod, both in his minds’ eye and in the shower, and Molly began to nuzzle against it with her soft, smooth cheek, her little pink lips barely bushing the tip and she gave a small gasp, pulling back…a line of clear, sticky precum trailed from his cock to her bottom lip.

John shuddered, feeling his groin muscles clench, and pumped his fist a little faster…

He hissed out loud as Molly took him into her mouth; she seemed like the type who’d pretend she didn’t know what she was doing, but was, in secret, a cock-sucking pro…he imagined the tip of her tongue tracing little patterns over the head, teasing the slit, innocent eyes staring up at him, always staring…

The heat gathering in his lower belly began to spread, curling against the tops of his thighs…he was so, so close; he spread his legs a little wider to keep his balance and slowed his pace down a touch, not wanting to rush the moment.

Molly started to stand, licking a long, hot, wet stripe up the underside of his cock, and continued over his belly, up his chest, followed the curve of his neck and jaw, and ended at his mouth with a kiss that took the breath from his lungs.

John closed his eyes, both in fantasy and reality.

He could feel Mollys’ hands travel up the length of his body, just as her tongue had, fingernails scraping just this side of painful along his hips and side.

A low growl left Johns’ lips, and he braced his arm against the wall, water pouring down his neck and back...

Suddenly, Mollys’ hands were at his chest and he felt fingernails tracing his nipples lightly, flicking over them every so often and wringing a gasp from him each time, even as his tongue still wrestled with hers.

And then, abruptly, the once-gentle fingers pinched down and twisted the sensitive nubs of flesh cruelly, causing John to give a sharp cry as his eyes flew open and the invading tongue left his mouth.

Darker eyes flashed at him and a scarlet-painted mouth curled into a smirk as Irene, not Molly, looked down at him now; hair pinned up in the same style it had been when he’d first laid eyes on her but now, instead of Sherlocks’ coat, she was donning his thin blue dressing gown…and nothing else.

John bit down on his lip hard, nearly drawing blood. The woman had irritated the piss out of him, true-

_‘Fucking understatement!’_

-But, he had to admit…she was _gorgeous._

Irene chuckled throatily and leaned forward to nip and lick at his bottom lip, then trailed light kisses back along his jawline until he felt warm breath at his ear…

_‘You have fantastic taste in women, John.’_

He swallowed a moan and leaned his forehead against the shower tile, right above where his arm rested; he could feel his balls drawing up tightly, it wouldn’t be much longer now.

Irene laughed and pushed him back; they were now in his room, and she began to walk backwards toward his bed, hands reaching up to unpin her hair…dark, wavy curls tumbled over her shoulders as she slowly lowered herself onto his sheets, legs spread wide, waiting for him.

Johns’ hips began bucking against his own hand, seemingly with a mind of their own.

He was now completely naked, the head of his cock dark and dribbling with need by this point; he blinked and was now between her legs, teasing the soft, wet folds of flesh as she gasped and writhed among the blankets. Taking each of her legs, he lifted them one-by-one over his shoulders, the way he always did before…before the bullet.

The doctor was panting heavily now, and if he hadn’t been standing under the showerhead, he surely would have been soaked in sweat, anyway.

 _‘Now,’_ he said, still teasing her slick entrance, _‘beg ME for mercy.’_ …this was HIS fantasy, after all.

 _‘Ohhh, John!’_ she gasped, breathless and beautifully desperate. _‘John, please!...Please, FUCK me!’_

He grabbed her hips to gain purchase, digging his fingers in harshly and making her moan while arching her back…after ‘taking aim’ and lining up his cock, he thrust forward and buried himself so deep, his balls slapped against her arse.

In between the whorish moaning (though John couldn’t tell if he was only imagining it, or if those sounds were actually coming from HIM), she chanted his name in time with each thrust… _'John! John! John! John! JOHN! Oh, JOHN!....Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! DADDY!’_

Her voice changed; sounded deeper, and John snapped back to her face…only, the face that those long, dark curls were framing now wasn’t Irene’s…it was Sherlock’s. _Sherlock_ was now the one arching his back and clutching handfuls of blanket while he writhed on Johns’ cock.

 _‘Oh, Daddy, don’t stop!...fuck me, fuck me, I’ve been so bloody **naughty!** ’_ John looked away from the mesmerizing sight of his features contorted with lust; now, of course, instead of slamming into Irene’s cunt, he was pounding into Sherlocks’ arse…it even had his handprints from the night before still glowing harshly against the porcelain skin. The detectives’ own cock was rock hard and bobbing against his stomach with the rhythm of Johns’ thrusting…

Sherlock let out one more moan, _‘Ah, DADDDDEEEEE!’_ , and then he was cumming, semen shooting out in thin lines across his belly—

Johns’ body convulsed as he was sent over the edge, as well; he fell to his knees on the shower floor, splattering the tile and shuddering at the sheer force of what was easily the strongest orgasm he’d ever had.

He stayed that way for a moment, hunched over and resting on his knees while he rode out the aftershocks…he took several deep, trembling breaths as he let the still-hot water cascade over his head and down his back.

Now, John had always considered himself a fairly open-minded and tolerant man (the past forty-eight hours could speak volumes for that); he hadn’t been lying when he said to Sherlock that it was all ‘fine’…straight, gay, bi, and whatever connotations came in between…it was fine; it was _all_ fine, as long as everyone in the relationship was of legal age and consent.

But he, himself, personally…he’d never looked twice at another man, let alone lusted after one. Yet hear he was, cumming the hardest he’d ever cum in his entire life, all while imagining himself balls-deep in his flatmate and being called ‘Daddy’. _‘Fuck…’_ he sucked in another deep breath. _‘What are you going to do now, John Watson?’_

What is he going to do, indeed.

With legs still a bit trembly, he finally stood and finished washing off, his mind still racing.

 _‘How am I going to hide this???’_ And from Sherlock Holmes, no less. _‘I can’t cover an erection forever; he’s going to notice eventually…’_

And a new thought struck him…what if he already _has_?

John thought back to the night before, when he jerked Sherlocks’ pants down. The man _had_ been semi—

 _‘Nah,’_ he shut that train of thought down. It had to have been involuntary; he would have noticed Sherlock grinding his cock into his thigh and getting off…and the man certainly _hadn’t_.

John groaned and finished rinsing the shampoo out of his hair. This whole situation was getting far more complex than he’d ever bargained for.

Just as he was stepping out of the shower and into the warm, steam-filled room to towel off when he heard a soft, almost tentative-sounding knock at the door, followed by a muffled “Daddy?”

Johns’ pleasure at the man actually knocking first (in lieu of picking the lock) quickly faded; Sherlocks’ voice had an unfamiliar edge to it. He wrapped the towel around his waist and opened the door, finding himself faced with a quite unhappy-looking ‘little’ Sherlock. With Gladstone in tow (Johns’ heart gave a little flutter to see how attached the man had gotten to it) and a fist rubbing at a sleep-laden eye, the ‘little boy’ watched him, pouting…not a defiant pout, John noticed, but a sad one. “Aw, what’s wrong, love?” he asked, his newfound ‘Daddy’ instincts kicking in.

Sherlock gave a little sniff and stopped scrubbing at his eye, choosing to hug Gladstone tightly to his chest with both arms instead. “I didn’t know where you were,” he said, tucking his head and peering ‘up’ at John through his eyelashes, his voice still thick from sleep.

John felt a twinge of guilt…”But Daddy was right here; you found me!” he said, trying to keep his voice light and cheery, hoping it would have the desired affect and stave off any kind of fussing.

“Not when I woke up!” Sherlock replied accusingly, as if it should have been obvious.

John stared at him blankly, until he felt the light bulb click on behind his eyes. “Oh, _that’s_ why you got in bed with me, eh? Didn’t want to wake up alone?” Sherlock nodded, even managing to make that slight movement seem sad, and the doctor felt like an absolute heel. “Daddy’s _very_ sorry,” he said, and meant it. He held out his arms for a hug, “I didn’t realize that, Sherly…it won’t happen again, I promise. Forgive me?”

The little detective appeared indecisive at first, looking from John to the floor and back again…and then stepped into the waiting hug and allowed John to wrap his arms around his waist while he laid his cheek on top of the doctor’s still-damp hair.

It was a heart-meltingly sweet gesture, and John lapped it up. Alternating between patting and rubbing his back, John held Sherlock until he could feel the man relax considerably; when he felt the cuddling work its magic, John stepped back and looked up at him, leaving a comforting hand to lay on his hip. “Better?” he asked, smiling warmly.

Sherlock finally gave him a small smile back as his hand went to his mouth and, for a split second, looked as if he were going to start sucking his thumb right there…but then thought better of it and rubbed his cheek instead.

Now, of course John couldn’t claim to be nearly as observant as Sherlock is, but the small motion wasn’t lost on him…well, he might have overlooked it, if he hadn’t been witness to the very act this morning and had the image fresh in his mind.

He didn’t want to press, though; John made the decision early on that, even with being cast in the ‘dominant’ role, he was going to let Sherlock take lead for the majority of these interactions…at least while figuring out this new dynamic and its boundaries. He would still be ‘Daddy’, certainly, but the when, where, and how’s will largely be left to the detective while they adjusted accordingly. Whatever the case, ‘force’ was never going to be a part of this…even during the spanking, John would have quit in a heartbeat, had Sherlock been completely unwilling.

John would _never_ ask, or even want, Sherlock to stop being ‘Sherlock’, after all.

Making ‘suggestions’, on the other hand…

John patted the hip his hand was still laying on, “Okay, Daddy still has to shave and get dressed; why don’t you get dressed as well, and I’ll meet you in the sitting room so we can finish putting away toys, yeah?”

Sherlock didn’t seem thrilled with the idea of being sent away, but the memory of a warm bottom was still very fresh in his mind. “‘Kay,” he said quietly, and turned to go back down the hallway with Gladstone now tucked under one arm. John tried to soften the sting and reached out to give him a soft pat on the bum, “Good boy; I’ll only be a minute.”

He leaned out into the hallway and watched as Sherlock, Mr. Big-Bad-Glowering-Smart-Arse, shuffled on his way clad in footed, dropseat pajamas while clutching a stuffed dog for all it was worth; the corner of his mouth tweaked up into a grin and he stepped back to the sink, shaking his head fondly. John looked at himself in the mirror; he had a feeling that he was only seeing a small fraction of what ‘little’ Sherlock could be…and he couldn’t deny that he was horribly excited to discover the rest.

Once he was dressed and had his hair combed, John made a beeline for the sitting room, hoping Sherlock hadn’t created another whirlwind effect in his absence. He found the detective fully dressed, in the same spot he’d been sitting in when John arrived home yesterday…and in his usual attire, the doctor was disappointed to note—he’d been hopeful that he’d find him in another of his new outfits.

“Eleven minutes, forty-five seconds,” Sherlock said, holding up a shirt for inspection and then laying it back on top of another pile, frowning slightly.

John looked around…was he talking _to_ him, or just _at_ him? “Uh, what?”

“Upstairs. You said you’d ‘only be a minute’,” he replied, imitating Johns’ voice to near perfection. “It’s been _eleven_ minutes, plus forty-five seconds.”

John looked towards the ceiling and pressed his fingertips to his left temple; yes, this was ‘big’ Sherlock, alright. “You knew what I meant, you twat,” he said, going to join him in the middle of the floor.

“Is that any kind of language you should be using around a small child within earshot?” the man replied dryly.

John only gave him a look and picked up a clear, plastic package containing wooden blocks…and upon closer inspection, realized that instead of featuring the regular alphabet, or animals, they were imprinted with the periodic table of elements.

He grinned broadly; of _course_ they did. He held them up, “Where’d you dig these up?” he asked, highly amused.

Sherlock glanced up and couldn’t help but smile as well. “A website that caters to ‘all things _geek’_ , as they claim; they had a number of other items in a similar vein, but those were what grabbed my attention.”

John chuckled and put them aside…leave it to the genius to find ‘geeky’ baby items. He glanced around at all the other ‘goodies’ Sherlock had purchased; there was more than he originally thought. “Where exactly are we going to put all of this, anyway?”

“Clothes will go in my room; toys will go in there,” he replied, nodding his head towards a plain cardboard box near the fireplace.

“In _that?_ ” John asked, confused. He’d been sure that the other man would have wanted to go the whole nine yards and keep his things in a nicely painted toybox…not an old, beat-up, dusty cardboard box.

Sherlock glanced up from sorting the white and coloured laundry and gauged the doctors’ expression. “Think about it, John…how many times have we had someone ‘pop in’ or ‘stop by’; how many times do we come home and there’s Mrs. Hudson, tidying up or cooking—which I am _not_ complaining about,” he said, reaching behind him and tossing John a plush bee with light-up wings. “But it goes without saying that even though this is home, _our_ home…it’s not exactly what one could call ‘secure’; we **have** to keep this as discreet as possible.”

John picked up the soft orange-and-yellow striped creature, squeezing its belly to make the crinkly wings flash different colours while it emitted a soft humming sound. He smiled at it and sighed; “You’re right…a sweet little blue toychest at the foot of your bed would be cute, but you’re right,” he agreed, dragging the box over and dropping the bee in, followed by the blocks.

Sherlock, having returned his focus to the piles of clothes, looked back up, slightly surprised. Though he’d been slightly taken aback at first by how well John was accepting of this whole thing and how quickly he’d taken to his role as ‘Daddy’, he’d adjusted accordingly…but statements like that still caught him off guard.

They continued on; Sherlock sorting clothes and tossing toys and books to John, and John putting them away and tossing more clothes back to Sherlock. As the pile diminished, John looked around—something was missing. “…Didn’t you say you wanted nappies, too?”

The detectives’ back stiffened slightly, but John was too busy peering around to notice the near-imperceptible motion anyway. “I _may_ have mentioned them, yes…”

The doctor stopped his investigation and came back to Sherlock. “What about a dummy?” he asked, considering both his previous dream and the detectives’ obvious example of oral fixation this morning.

The other man offered no answer right away, choosing to stare at John with that infamous glare; the one that seemed to bore right through you. After several moments of apparently-growing tension that had the doctor wondering what the hell he’d said wrong, the detective spoke in a low, cautious voice. “Why…do you ask?” he questioned, not taking his eyes from the man in front of him.

John opened his mouth to respond; a lame, half-hearted excuse already at his lips…and sighed instead. There was really _no_ use in trying to lie. “Look, when we were in bed…I mean, when you were in bed with me, I saw you…Oh, _fuck’sakes_ , Sherlock—you were sucking your thumb, and I thought it was cute,” he said, leaving out the part about his dreamscape.

…That was going to have to be a different conversation for a different day.

Sherlock managed to keep his features neutral and expressionless, except for the light blush creeping across his cheekbones. “I…admit; I have considered them,” he said measuredly, looking down at his hands.

John chuckled; ‘shy’ Sherlock was easily becoming one of his favourites. “Hey, come on now…nothin’ to be embarrassed about, really. Little ones’ just like their dummies, that’s all.”

Sherlock tilted his head to glance at him from the corner of his eye, “I’m starting to wonder who’s more enthusiastic, John…me, or you.”

It was Johns’ turn to blush; he hadn’t meant to seem that eager. He made a dismissive noise and tried to play it off, “ _Pffft_ , I was jus’ bein’ practical…it would leave your hands free, for one.” No sooner than he’d said it, and he was picturing Sherlock standing at his microscope, deep in concentration…in nothing but a nappy and an eggplant-coloured (Oh, _blast_ , what did they call those things, the outfits with the snaps?...‘Onesies’, that’s it!) onesie, with a dummy held tightly in the side of his mouth, his brow furrowed.

A daft-sounding giggle burst forth at the image and then John was standing, holding an arm out to the disconcerted detective, who was still sitting in the floor and staring at John as if he’d sprouted a second head. “C’mon, you _have_ to let me buy you a box of nappies,” said the doctor, gleeful and no longer concerned with keeping ‘cool’.

Sherlock, however, was still keeping his features carefully blank…but it was hard to miss the gleam in those eyes. “Are you…serious?” he asked, treading lightly.

“Well, yeah!” John replied, actually getting giddy; he was about to go and buy _nappies_ for the first time in his life…and for _Sherlock_ , no less.

The detective studied him thoroughly, looking for the slightest trace that John was taking the piss…even Sherlock himself hadn’t foreseen the man taking to the idea this quickly. He’d figured it would be several months of awkward scolding and strained hugs before he fully warmed up to the role…even after the initial frenzy of activity the night before.

Yes, this was turning out to have quite the unexpected results…pleasant ones, true, but Sherlock didn’t want it to become purely a novelty; nothing more than a farce for Johns’ amusement.

After scanning the doctor and satisfying himself with the intent he saw there, Sherlock reached up and took his hand. “…If you insist.”

Johns’ grinned again, his face practically glowing with his own boyish excitement as he tugged Sherlock to his feet.

“Get your coat.”

***

They chose a store further from home, rather than the one John normally frequented; the cashiers there already knew them both by name, and while John mentioned that they could certainly lie and say they were ‘babysitting’, Sherlock was just as quick to point out that that excuse wouldn’t be feasible while buying _adult_ nappies.

“Really?” John asked, looking at the package in his hands and then at Sherlocks’ waist, sizing him up. “What about these things with the velcro sides?”

The detective sighed another of his ‘you’ve-forgotten-who-you’re-talking-to’ sighs. “John…don’t you think that I’ve already _researched_ what fits and what doesn’t?”

John rolled his eyes and frowned, putting the package back down dejectedly; they were just, oh, he didn’t know… _cuter_ -looking than the plain adult ones. “But the pictures on those sites…they were wearing baby nappies, and _those_ fit!”

“You have to _special order_ those, John!” Sherlock hissed under his breath, glancing around quickly. They were alone in the aisle, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t be overheard.

“Well, why didn’ yah?” John replied, purposefully _not_ lowering his voice…a bit of his sadistic side was rearing its head, and seeing Sherlock get this jittery was a _little_ funny.

“Would you _**kindly** shut. your. gob_?” was the next scathing reply and this time John complied, realizing the other man really didn’t find it as amusing. “For starters; I had _no_ idea you would be so ready and willing for this step!” the detective said in hushed tones.

“Well, I _am_ ,” John answered, hoping it sounded as sincere as he felt. “…Can you order some cuter ones to get here Monday?” he asked, slightly disappointed that they’d have to wait until then. Sure, they could use the adult-ones, if they really wanted…but those were too 'medical’-looking for his ‘little boy’, and they reminded him too much of work.

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow; John was definitely ‘eager’, and he silently added that to the list of other peculiars he’d noticed during this foray into the private sector of his life. “I can,” he said, then paused. “…Would you like to pick them out with me?” he ventured.

John went from dour to beaming in record time. “Why, yes…yes I would, thank you!” He turned back to look over the other baby items sitting on the shelves, searching for one thing in particular…

Ah, _there_ they are!

John moved over to the display of dummies, amazed at just how many different shapes and colours and styles there were nowadays; it was almost overwhelming. He took Sherlocks’ hand and drew him over, “Here, you pick out one _you_ like, and I’ll pick out another.”

The detective hardly heard him; his entire focus was looking down between them, where Johns’ hand enveloped his.

John glanced up, puzzled when the other man didn’t answer, and looked down to see what he was staring at so intently.

… _‘Oh.’_

They both looked up at each other in the same moment; John blushing and spluttering a quick “Sorry!” and Sherlock simply staring at him inquisitively, with a slight tilt of his head. Without a word, the detective (in all of his dark, towering glory) scrutinized the wall of plastic packages and blinked, his gaze coming to a rest on one in specific: it was one of the newer-looking (to John, at least) models with a dark blue circular piece that the nipple was affixed to, and the flatter plastic shield that covered the little ones’ mouth done in a lighter, powder-blue shade. He picked it up and turned it over in his hands, then silently handed it to John.

The doctor quit his stammering and smiled proudly, as if he’d been bestowed with a great honour.

And in a small, Sherlockian way…he had been.

“That’s a nice one, I like it. Ohhhh- _kay_ , my turn,” he said, blowing out a puff of air and perusing the colourful array. After being far too selective than any grown man should be when picking out a dummy for his flatmate, he settled on one of the older-fashioned ones that he was used to seeing; the mouth guard was pale green in colour (since Sherlock already picked out a blue one) with a light orange plastic handle, the colour of sherbet….he could practically hear the slight clicking noise it would make while bobbing between Sherlocks’ lips as he picked it up.

John held it up, hoping it would meet the detectives’ approval…Sherlock gave him a lopsided smile, and nodded.

_Sold._

They continued to move further down the aisle, John doing a little surveillance for any other ‘last-minute’ items they could use; Sherlock already had blankets, and certainly no need for more toys…John picked up a bottle of baby powder and a container of wipes while they were there, and had just come upon the mountainous section of baby food and formula (“NO, don’t you _dare_ even _think_ it!”) when he spied something else, something he was unfortunately sure that the detective already said he had no interest in…

John picked up the set of baby bottles—three in all; a clear one, one with brown and blue polka dots, and the last with matching stripes—and held it up as if to ask _‘Please?’_

Sherlock gazed at them for a long moment, and just as John was about to give up and put them back on the shelf, the detective sighed…“ _No_ formula, and I’ll warn you right now—it’s a very rare occasion when I feel _that_ little,” he said.

John didn’t say ‘boo’ about it, and gleefully tucked the box under his arm.

Just as they were about to round the corner and leave, John practically vibrating with the need to get back home…a familiar voice called out from the opposite end of the aisle, causing them both to freeze.

“Hey! I said ‘hey’, didn’t you hear me?” Molly said excitedly as she bounced up to them in her usual bubbly way. John forced a smile and tried to angle the arm that held all the baby things away from her, hoping she wouldn’t notice. “’ey, Molly,” he said, sounding friendly enough. Sherlock stayed his usual silent, imposing self and looked down at the slightly awkward girl as if he could will her away.

“Fancy runnin’ into you two here!’ she went on, beaming from ear-to-ear...her smile only faltering when Sherlock raised an eyebrow and cocked his head in her direction. “Here?” he repeated, putting more disdain in that word than had ever been thought possible.

“W-well, I meant ‘here’, in this this store, not ‘here’ as in, this specific…” she trailed off, and John began to feel increasingly sympathetic to the poor girl. He put his free hand on Sherlocks’ elbow, as if to say _‘down, boy…she’s harmless’_. To Molly, he said “We’re picking up a few things’ our regular place was out of,” and smiled warmly at her. Whether it was his newfound ‘fatherly’ instincts, or sheer pity, he didn’t know…he just didn’t want to see her bear the brunt of Sherlocks’ defensive mode.

“…In the baby section?” she asked, her brow etching together momentarily before her eyes widened. “ _Oh_ ,” she gasped, her hands going to her mouth while she bounced on her heels and looked up at Sherlock excitedly. “You _finally_ told him; see, I told you it would be ok!”

Johns’ mouth opened, and then shut…then opened again, then shut again. “So, wait, you know…how…why do y-… _huh_?” he stuttered while a million and one questions plowed through his head, each of them vying to be first in line out of his mouth. He looked to Sherlock for clarification; the man was staring at Molly with the same unblinking, venom-loaded expression that a cobra uses to lull its prey before striking.

Molly, completely unaware of how ridiculously close she was to teetering over the abyss, went on in her girlishly clueless way. “Well, yeah! Sherlock’s been plannin’ and goin’ on about this for _ages_ …I thought you said it would be awhile longer before he was ready? But _oh_ , it doesn’t matter; Sherlock has a ‘Daddy’ now!” she babbled, clasping her hands together and tucking them under her chin.

John had been listening intently while she carried on gushing over how ‘perfect’ it all was, how he’d always seemed like the fatherly type, while he slowly turned to the detective, his stomach sinking a little further with every word. “…Planning? It was all a _plan_?” he asked, not much above a whisper.

The man heard it, though, and finally looked away from staring daggers at Molly. His expression was carefully blank, carefully measured. “John, I…”

“That’s what it was, wasn’t it? Another ‘experiment’?” he spat bitterly, trying to control the tremours threatening to overtake his body and growing hot all over. “Is that…Really, is that what everything was for? Tryin’ta see ‘how far John’ll go’; how easily I can be manipulated? ‘Oh, let’s just see how _straight_ he really is!’” he said, mocking Sherlocks’ posh accent.

Sherlocks’ jaw tightened as he actively tried to look _anywhere_ but at him; Molly had grown quiet and increasingly uncomfortable-looking as John ranted. Her eyes looked worried and she began wringing her hands, “Did I…did I say something wrong?” she asked, looking back and forth between the two.

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak and John abruptly cut him off. “ _No_ , no…you said everything, _everything_ , that I needed to know,” he said, his eyes burning a hole right through the man. He took a step towards him, squaring his shoulders and poking him in the chest harshly. “ _Fuck_ you, and fuck your ‘games’,” he hissed between clenched teeth, vaguely aware of Molly’s gasp behind him. With that, he dropped his armful of dummies and bottles at Sherlocks’ feet and turned on his heel sharply, then stalked away.

“John, _John_ , wait!” Molly called after him, and made as if she were going to follow. She stopped and whirled around to face the detective, her features crumbling in distress. “What are you _waiting_ for??? Go tell ‘im he’s _wrong_!”

Sherlock was staring down at the items scattered around his feet, only looking up when Molly finished her pleading. He glared at her, his eyes glassing over and for a moment, she thought he was going to cry…then, he blinked, and when he opened them again…nothing. No tears, no emotion, barely any sign of life…they were dead; dead eyes.

“No,” was all he said, with a voice to match…and then he too, turned on his heel and left her.


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly's really stuffed her foot in it this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *WARNING* This chapter contains a LOT of backstory; a.k.a, a boatload of dialogue.

John stalked down the street, his vision tunneled and his mind racing…he was _livid_. Everything had been a set-up, he thought vehemently; _everything_ , from the clothes and toys to getting John to spank him, calling him ‘Daddy’, the thumbsucking, the show of actual _emotion_ …that first day alone!...

John stopped in his tracks; that first day, what started it all…one of Sherlocks’ ‘bored’ fits…the same type of fit he’d been having since they’d first moved in…Jesus _Christ_ , had they _all_ been staged??? Had each one been an attempt to push Johns’ train of thought in that direction…?

And what about that sob story, the one about his childhood; the absentee father, the fragile mother…how much of _that_ could be true? Where did the manipulation end and the man begin?

_‘FUCK.’_

John stopped right in the middle of the sidewalk and pressed the heels of his hands tightly to his eyes, the whole prospect dizzyingly infuriating. He fought back the wave of stomach-boiling upset, determined not to vomit right there in front of everyone on the street, when he became aware of rapidly approaching footsteps coming up behind him.

His whole body tensed and his hands balled into fists; “I told you to fuck _off_!” he shouted, whirling around with his arm already cocked back…he wouldn’t be taking it easy on that ‘pretty face’ this time.

John was already in mid-swing, his gaze following so he could watch his fist cave in one of those massive cheekbones, when another face, one that _didn’t_ belong to Sherlock, filled his vision…

Molly.

The former soldier had a split second to angle his arm downwards and let his momentum arch away from her, throwing him off balance. Even so, he _barely_ missed her; the swish of air caused by his movements coming close enough to ruffle a strand of hair hanging on her face.

The poor girl turned paper-white and froze, wide-eyed and trembling, with her mouth hanging open in shock. “ _Jesus_ ,” John wheezed, regaining his balance and looking at her dumbly, “Molly, I didn’t…I’m _so_ sorry, that wasn’t at…I didn’t know it was _you_ ; I thought Sherlock!…”

Molly only stood there, shaking and nodding her head to his words until he mentioned the bastard by name…it was then that her eyes filled again and threatened to overflow. “No…don’t…” she said, sounding just as shaky as she looked. “…It wasn’t him…all my fault…please, _listen_!” she finished, her voice tear-soaked and cracking with the need to be heard. Actual tears began trekking down her cheeks as John watched, guilt-ridden about nearly pounding her…and then he started slowly noticing that most everyone in the street had stopped to watch, glaring at him nastily, and he realized how this scene must have appeared to a bystander.

He put his arm around her shoulders tentatively and cast a quick glance around, giving the gathering crowd a strained smile. “Eh…c’mon, Molly; let’s go back to the flat an’ I’ll make us a cuppa—"

“Why didn’t you _listen_ to him???” she interrupted, her mouth hanging open with the disbelieving accusation, oblivious to anyone or anything else.

“Why didn’t I—???” John spat, his voice rising before he could help himself…he stopped and took a short look around again, then lowered his tone considerably. “Why didn’t I _listen_?! Because every word out of that ponces’ mouth is a _lie_ ; that’s why I didn’t _listen_!” he hissed, leading her away before their conversation drew any more unwanted attention and got his arse handed to him.

John tried his best to soothe her on the way back to the flat, but every time she tried to explain, Molly would only become more flustered, stumbling over her words…and, as mean as the thought was, John couldn’t keep from wondering how this meek little thing managed to survive medical school, if walking and talking gave her this much trouble.

He was instantly ashamed of himself for even thinking in such a way; people become overwhelmed all the time, and she was obviously very upset, upset with _him_ , above all…his judgment wasn’t being fair, not in the least.

It was only when they were secured in the privacy of 221Bs’ walls (John had cautiously gone up, fully expecting Sherlock to be there…but the flat was dark and silent) that she settled and collected herself; Molly looked about, the mug of tea John brought her clutched in her hands and going largely unnoticed. John was about to quip that this wasn’t the first time she’d seen the place, to try and lighten the mood a little, when Molly beat him to the punch, “…I’ve never seen it this quiet, before.”

John sighed in answer and sat across from her, sans tea…not much in the mood for it. He looked about, as well; it was a shame that he was probably going to have to move out—after all, Sherlock could afford this place well enough on his own, now…John couldn’t. As his eyes roved over the organized chaos he’d become so accustomed to over the years, they fell upon the box that contained Sherlocks’ new toys, and a pang hit him…strong enough to make his eyes tear up while his chest felt like it was caving in on itself.

 _‘Fuck,’_ he thought, the realization crashing over him, drowning him—

He’d fallen in _love_ with his flatmate.

“Shit,” he mumbled, rubbing his hand over his hair and then down his face. Now that he’d thought it, he couldn’t UNthink it, but he was…he was _straight_ ; just this very morning in the shower, he’d imagined…!

John looked over at Molly from the corner of his eye and had the decency to blush, recalling how her lips—her soft, pink, pouty lips—had looked wrapped around his…

 _‘Whoa, John!...’_ he scolded himself, shifting in his seat and switching mental gears to avoid making an awkward situation even more so, painfully.

He shook his head; okay, so _that_ near-disastrous reaction was enough to show that he wasn’t ‘gay’, at least not completely. Oh, who the fuck _knows_ —there are so many different types of love; his might not even be romantic…but there was no denying that there was _something_ there.

The doctor sighed; why was he even dwelling on it anymore, nothing was ever going to come of it, now…Sherlock had only been playing a game.

 _‘Too little, too late,”_ he thought, and then considered his wording…a corner of his mouth twitched up…

And his heart broke all over again.

Molly, whose focus had finally settled back on John, watched him quietly while she chewed on her bottom lip. “John,” she said, breaking into his musings, “it’s not what you think…Sherlock wasn’t planning…well, okay, he _was_ …but not in the way you think, he just…he wanted to be sure…he…oh, _blast it_ , I’ve bummed it all up!”

“No, _you_ didn’t do anythin’…he was the one lyin’ t’my face an’ gettin’ me to jump through hoops for ‘im!...” John snapped, his accent rearing its broad head in his upset.

“Okay, wait, just…wait,” Molly said, cutting him off before he could REALLY get back into his rant full-swing. “What _exactly_ has he told you?”

Oh, where to begin, where to begin… _‘At the beginning, of course,’_ he could hear Sherlocks’ disparaging voice niggling at the back of his brain. So, that’s just what he did, going all the way back to the fit of boredom that started it all; it seemed like ages ago, rather than just a couple of days. Once he got to the details he’d acquired of the detectives’ familial past, Molly interjected again, “John…he was telling you the truth about all that.”

“How would _you_ know?” he snorted. “Gave you the same sob story?”

“It’s _not_ a ‘sob story’,” she insisted, scooting to the edge of her seat.

“Oh, come _off_ it, he’s probably been givin’ everyone the same line of bullshit for years…”

“I have _met_ his mother before, and it’s _not_ bull…shit,” she sniped, at first looking shocked and then quite proud of herself for saying such a grown-up word.

John stared at her, a bit taken aback. “You…you’ve actually _met_ her? When?” he asked, all (okay, most…not all, but most) of his anger being tweaked into curiosity; besides Mycroft and naturally, Sherlock, Molly was the only other person he knew of that had met the mysterious matriarch.

Moving slowly, as if this whole ordeal was taking its toll on her and making her weary (And John wouldn’t blame her if it was), Molly leaned forward to place her tea on their small end table next to the sofa and then sank back into the corner, propping her elbow on the armrest and laid her cheek against her closed fist. “When their father died,” she said, the weight of the statement claiming her physically.

The doctor was actually rendered speechless; he hadn’t _known_ , Sherlock hadn’t once made mention of it, _ever_. As a matter of fact, he’d never mentioned his father at all before this whole situation came about. “His father, he’s…dead? But he never told…me,” he said, and there was a small part of him that was hurt by that—he thought he’d known the man better than most, and here he was, presented with this revelation…“When?” he asked again.

Molly furrowed and she looked up towards the ceiling, somewhere off to the right, as if she could find the memory she was searching for there. “That was about…two years?...before he met you?” she said, her puzzled inflection making it sound as if it were a question, not a statement. She looked back to John and must have read his next enquiry from his expression. “He doesn’t like to talk about it, John…not with _anyone_. Really, the only reason I know is because I work in the morgue—he hasn’t spoken of it since.”

Now, he knew he shouldn’t have, considering the situation, but John took a bit of solace in that fact… _that_ sounded like the Sherlock he knew. “Was that how you met him…?”

“Oh, no,” Molly said as a small, shy smile spread to her lips. “No, we’d known each other for a while before that…well, known _of_ each other, rather.”

“Oh?” John asked, trying to keep her talking as long as possible; not only was he getting answers to questions he didn’t even know he had, but it was doing a fair job of distracting him from the ‘fight’ and all of the anger and hurt that came with it…he could feel the tightly coiled ball of anger in his stomach loosening, and he quietly wished he’d gone ahead and made himself some tea.

Molly pressed her lips together and looked away again, and the heels of her feet set to bouncing nervously. “So, you…when Sherlock showed you the ageplay stuff, you didn’t think that it was…sick?” she asked quietly, her demeanor radiating with anxiety.

John looked at her strangely, wondering what the hell _that_ had to do with what he asked…but you know what, fuck it—this story had more twists and turns than he’d ever anticipated, and he was honestly tired of trying to piece it together like a blind man with a rubik’s cube. Whatever Molly was about to say was obviously important to her, so he answered warily…honestly, but warily.

“Well, no…I mean, it was _different_ , yes; I’d only seen bits an’ pieces about it through the computer an’ telly, an’ yeah, I thought it was a bit off at first, but the way Sherlock explained it…” John realized he was starting to ramble, and cut to the point. “No, Molly, I don’t think it’s ‘sick’,” he said, simply put. “Just _tell_ me what that has to do with everything else, please?”

Molly blushed furiously, deeper than any blush before, and looked down at her hands…one of which was twisting the corner of her beige cardigan harshly, and John was instantly reminded of how Sherlock acted before he’d made his big reveal.

Oh.

_Oh._

And Molly confirmed it; “I…” she began shyly, and quietly enough to make John strain to listen, “…I met Sherlock on one of those sites.”

“One of those… _oh_!” he exclaimed…finally the missing piece—this was how she knew about Sherlock and his ‘plans’, why she was so antsy now, why she’d been in the—

Why she’d been in the _baby_ aisle in the first place.

“You too?” he asked, more curious than surprised.

Molly opened and closed her mouth, and then simply nodded. John wasn’t letting her clam up now, though. “So, are you a baby, or…?” he began, allowing her to fill in the blanks.

The look of mortification on the poor girls’ face was priceless, and John had to fight hard to keep his own look straight; this was just too sensitive of a subject to laugh at her. He patiently watched her attempt to speak, then fail, then pick up her lukewarm tea, and _then_ try again…this time succeeding. “Well, I…that’s part of the story,” she said, finding it easier not to look at him.

“I am a…a ‘little girl’, yes…but when I first signed up for that forum, I was _swamped_ with men asking to be my ‘Daddy’, and I just…I…Oh, you know how hard it is for me to say ‘no’,” she admitted, finally looking up at him with a hint of resignation in her eyes.

John nodded sympathetically; he knew that while she wasn’t a _complete_ doormat, she did have some severe confidence issues.

She sighed, continuing. “I got very…it was _very_ overwhelming; the daily messages and complete strangers’ demanding that I start calling them ‘Da’ or ‘Daddy’ from the very beginning,” she said, sounding exhausted just from the recollection. “So, I changed my profile to say that I was a ‘Mummy’, instead…I thought if I started off with an air of authority, it would be easier to find someone who wasn’t so…aggressive…and then convince them to switch, or something.” She paused to laugh, her hand going to play with the end of her ponytail. “And that’s when Sherlock messaged me.”

John couldn’t help but grin at the irony; Molly switching to get away from the pushy, overbearing, arrogant men…and bumped straight into the one who could out-bitch them all.

Speaking of ‘straight’…

“He’s been looking for a ‘Mummy’, as well?” He was only _assuming_ Molly wasn’t the only one, of course…but he felt safe in that assumption.

“Oh, I think he was just looking for any kind of parental figure he could get at that point…I guess you’ve noticed his lack of sexual interest, right?”

Again, John struggled to keep his expression under control as he pictured Sherlocks’ half-hard cock springing out at him; he nodded in agreement anyway.

“Well, he made that very clear from the start, which was fine with me…I don’t like being sexual in headspace, either, and it was nice to not have to worry about _that_ being expected of me. Truthfully,” she continued, still winding her hair around her finger—John could easily see the ‘little girl’ in her, now that it had been spelled out for him, and thought it was perfectly fitting. “I think he wanted both a Mummy and a Daddy back then…still might, I dunno…but most of the dominant men on that site were either looking for sex, sissies, or baby girls; I can’t even remember ever seeing one looking for a platonic relationship with a boy,” she said, then looked at John and became flustered all over again. “Not that…not that _all_ gay Daddies are like that, though,” she stammered, trying to backtrack, “but I was only looking at the ads for _this_ area…”

John kept nodding at the odd, rambling turn the conversation had taken, agreeing just for the sake of moving the conversation along, when he realized…she was getting flustered over negatively stereotyping gay men because she thought _HE_ was gay. He went from nodding to shaking his head in one fluid motion, “No, _no_ , I’m not…”

Oh, _bugger_ it…what was the use? He sighed heavily, balancing his chin in his hand. “Nevermind; go on…”

Molly peered at him, puzzled, but did as John asked. “Okay, um…well, after we traded several messages back and forth, we agreed to meet—he was the one to insist on it being in public, which made me feel _loads_ better; it was at the little fish and chip shop, two corners over from the Met. I arrived a few minutes early, trying to see if I could spot him first, and I sat and waited…and waited, and waited, and _waited_. After a half hour went by, and he still hadn’t shown up, I gathered my things to get ready to leave, _completely_ put-off and disappointed, when he stepped up to the table…skinnier than he’s ever been before, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt that were little more than rags, with sunken eyes and a short buzzcut. Said he’d been watching me, an’ ‘didn’t know if I could handle a little shit like ‘im’…honestly,” she said, finishing off with a hollow, distant-sounding chuckle.

The doctor had been listening in rapt attention, totally engrossed with this brief glimpse into Sherlocks’ life, pre-John. Her description of the mans’ appearance particularly struck out at him, though…even in pajamas, Sherlock always looked nothing short of impeccable. “He was in disguise...?”

Molly shook her head slowly, as if the memory bothered her as well. “No…this was right around the time he began getting clean, after Greg made the deal with him; that’s why I hadn’t seen him ‘round the morgue yet, either.”

John was more than a bit startled, his previous fury all but forgotten by now…it was difficult to picture the man that way, living the life of a junkie, and not just ‘difficult’ in the literal sense; it was heartwrenching to imagine, and though he _wanted_ to stay angry at him, the very image of a dirty, malnourished Sherlock only made the doctor want to hold him to his chest and hug him tightly.

Molly went on, oblivious to Johns’ inner-musings. “I actually threatened to wash his mouth out for saying that,” she said, and for a split second, John had to wonder what she was talking about. “Oh, for the…” She giggled quietly and nodded, “For calling himself a ‘little shit’, yes; he gave me that look…you know the one where his nose crinkles up at the top?...and sat down,” she paused, her eyes gaining a wistful look about them. “And then he apologized, actually _apologized_ , to _me_ , and called me ‘Mummy’.” Her index finger traveled around the rim of her cup, lost in her own memories for the moment.

John let her have that time; he was preoccupied with thinking back to when Sherlock first came about this whole ‘agenda’, and how difficult it had been to get him to finally spill the beans…or it had _seemed_ difficult, at least. So, his question was this: _why_ had he been so different with Molly? So much more, ‘blasé’? Had it really been all part of an act for John, or…? The doctor shook his head, feeling a touch dizzy from trying to process all of this at once. “Why,” he began slowly, starting to grow weary himself, “didn’t it work out?”

Molly slowly returned her gaze to the man and gave him a wry smile, as if should have already known. “Isn’t it obvious?” she asked. “I was _faking_ , from the very start…have you ever tried keeping something from that man?!” She didn’t wait for an answer, and John was glad for it, “He knew _immediately_ , John…I’m submissive, I’m the ‘little’, _I’m_ the one who prefers to be babied; I could give him all the cuddling and attention he could ever ask for, but when it came down to it, I…I just don’t have a strict bone in my body. When it came time to put him in time-out, or, or _spank_ him,” she paused here, the corners of her mouth turning downwards, trembling, and for a moment, John thought she would surely burst into tears. “He would look up at me with, with those _eyes_ ; those sad, pretty eyes, a-and I couldn’t do it…one pout and sniffle and I, I would melt.”

The look that had entered Mollys’ eyes while she spoke was one of the most heartbreaking gazes that the former soldier had ever see; he’d always known that the girls’ infatuation with Sherlock had led to some hurtful moments between them, but after hearing the full extent…he now understood why.

“He…he said I was no better than ‘the whole lot of them’, so easy to _manipulate_ ; that I really didn’t care for him at all…s-so, we stopped meeting.” A tear finally showed itself out of the corner of her eye and fell, spilling down her cheek and coming to a stop at her chin. John took his handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to her silently, knowing all too well how she felt…he knew from experience how sharp Sherlocks’ tongue could be.

Molly took the proffered hanky and dabbed at her eyes, sniffling. “Th-thank you; you’re always so nice,” she said, taking a moment to breath before continuing her saga—she’d gotten this much of the story out, and wanted to finish telling it just as much as John wanted to hear it. “I…I didn’t hear another word from him for six months; he even deleted his profile, so I couldn’t message him…and then out of nowhere, he just strolls into the morgue with Lestrade and informs everyone of the new ‘arrangement’ they have, bein’ his usual tall, dark, and handso—his usual self,” she quickly cut off and corrected herself…just because _everyone_ knew about her crush on the man; that didn’t make it any easier to admit. “Of course he recognized me instantly, but other than that brief flicker in his eyes, he acted as if we’d never met before...he never spoke of our previous time together, and neither did I, for years,” she stopped again and looked back at John now; her eyes were glassy, and the smile that played upon her lips was small, and terribly, terribly sad. “…Until _you_ came along. Oh, John…he was so, _so_ excited; he thought you were perfect.

”

John found himself becoming misty-eyed now, and he swallowed against the tightness forming in his chest again. Just as he was working up to respond to her, unsure if he really had an answer that wouldn’t make him sound like a simpering moron, when Molly found the nerve to say now what she had been unable to earlier, “Don’t you _see_ , you daft bastard??? He wasn’t doing all that planning to _trick_ you…he was trying to lead you to figure it out on your own, so he wouldn’t be _forcing_ anything on you again!”

He stared at her dumbly, his mouth gaping open as all the air rushed from his lungs…Molly sat there and stared back, her shoulders’ trembling from the impact of her own outburst.

No, he didn’t…he wasn’t…he’d never even… _WHY_ hadn’t he thought about that!? He’d been thinking about that himself just that _very_ morning!... _Oh_ , he was so fucking _stupid!_

John stood abruptly, his feet tripping over themselves, much like his thoughts were; he _had_ to find Sherlock, right _now_ , but he had no idea where to even start looking. He went for his phone, reaching into his pocket and fumbling with it in hands that felt disconnected from his body, as if they belonged to someone else now, while mumbling “Sher…Sherl-lock…I have to call…him…talk.”

The numbers on the screen began to blur together and become unreadable, and John felt his body grow light and fuzzy-feeling; he knew instantly what was wrong…he’d stood up too fast and gotten dizzy. The world around him turned into streaks of melted color and shapes as he heard a muffled “John!” come from Molly’s direction…the next thing he knew, there were small, delicate hands grasping at his elbow and another steadier hand at his back, making him sit down. He tried standing again and the hands were now on his shoulders’, holding him down firmly….John finally gave up and closed his eyes, waiting for the spinning to stop. “…Need to find…Sherlock,” he mumbled again, trying to get his thoughts centered again. “…Talk to him…we need… _I_ need…apologize.”

One of the hands held his wrist, and he realized it was taking his pulse…he also realized that Mollys’ hands had grown considerably larger in the past minute; before he could put two-and-two together, a gruff voice sounded off in front of him—“I’m right _here_ , you prick,” it said flatly, and Johns’ eyes snapped open.

There, kneeling in front of the doctor while holding his wrist in one hand and glancing at his watch to time his pulse, was Sherlock. John was flooded with a bevy of emotions in that short moment: surprise, relief, anger, frustration, bewilderment, shame, and finally, resignation. He turned sullen and pulled his wrist from the mans’ grip, remembering their last exchange. “Where the hell did you come from?” he mumbled, having no desire to meet Sherlocks’ gaze, but unable to avoid it.

Sherlock held his hands up in mock surrender as John jerked out of his grasp; if he was hurt by the action, he was careful not to show it. “I was upstairs; unlike _some_ people, I elected to take a cab instead of wasting time.”

Molly had slunk back to her seat on the couch, watching the uncomfortable stare-down and hugging her knees to her chest. “Up…upstairs? You heard…?”

“Yes, I _heard_ ,” the detective snapped over his shoulder without taking his eyes from John. “I’m not deaf.”

John held his gaze evenly. “Molly,” he said slowly, the tension between the two men nearly palpable, “I think Sherlock and I need to have a discussion…privately.”

“Oh _yes_ …we certainly do,” Sherlock answered before she could; even though he was the one on his knees, he still managed to cut quite the intimidating figure. Molly nodded her head quickly, the fact that neither man was looking at her going over her head. “Y-yes, right,” she stammered, getting up to collect her things and scurry for the door.

After fumbling with the knob, Molly was finally able to pull it open, despite her shaky hand…before hurrying to her fresh air and freedom from the stifling conditions of the flat, she turned back to the both of them, and could swear that she felt the electricity popping jumping through the air around them. “I… _am_ sorry, Sherlock…John,” she said quietly, “I hope you can fix it…”and with that, she was gone.

As she descended the stairs and stepped back out into the bright, crisp afternoon sunshine, Molly mentally kicked herself again for opening her…her _damned_ mouth and eating her size six trainer. She physically cringed at the memory of that moment, replaying itself over and over…especially the hurt looks that had been in both their eyes.

Molly turned back to the building briefly, looking up at the darkened window; she stuck her hand in the left pocket of her cardigan, where her own pink soother stayed nestled when it wasn’t firmly in her mouth, and sent up a silent prayer to whoever was listening to _please_ fix another mess she’d made.

With nothing more left that she could do for the two men, Molly reached out to hail a cab, fully intent on getting home, snuggling with her blankie, and putting herself into a long, thoughtful time-out.


	6. Chapter Six-Final

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Last Chapter to the Introduction of Daddy John and Little Sherlock.

The two men continued to sit and glare at each other for several minutes, neither wanting to be the first to speak: in one corner, we have John, who was both embarrassed and ashamed at his overreaction, yet felt strangely justified in jumping to the conclusion that he did, especially when taking into account Sherlocks’ history of experimentation with the doctor…and then we have Sherlock, who was just plain hurt and angry that he’d been refused the chance to explain himself.

But, as justified as John felt, a staring contest with the detective _never_ panned out for the other contestant, and he found himself unable to keep contact with those piercing eyes…he looked down at his wrist instead; the skin there still felt warm where Sherlock had felt his pulse.

Sherlock gave a derisive snort…now that John had broken their pseudo-standoff, he spoke; “I believe you were saying something about owing me an apology?” he asked coolly, sitting back on his heels.

John only gave a quiet _‘hmph’_ in reply…by far, this wasn’t the first time Sherlock ever had the upper in their arguments, and it most likely wouldn’t be the last (Most likely? Who was he kidding? _Definitely_ wouldn’t be the last)—but now that he’d gotten a taste of being ‘Daddy’ and being listened to, even for a short couple of days, he had to admit that it was tougher to swallow now. He shook his head slightly, trying to physically knock away those thoughts and feelings; he was talking to a grown-man, an adult…not a little boy he could order around, and thinking otherwise could prove to be a dangerous road to travel down.

He took a deep breath and forced himself to meet Sherlocks’ gaze again. “I… _am_ sorry, truly, that I acted that way; I should have listened to you first.”

The other man nodded, accepting Johns’ amends. He rubbed his palms up and down his thighs and then stood. “Yes, thank you,” he said, his voice bland and cold…as if he were addressing anyone else other than John. “…I already have a small bag packed; I’ll send for the rest of my things tomorrow.”

It took all of three seconds for the doctor to process what he’d just heard before his heart ground to a screeching halt. Without thinking, he reached out and snagged the sleeve of the detectives’ shirt as he made to walk past. “You’re…leaving?” he asked, the reality that he may very well fucked everything up beyond repair hitting him dead in the chest…sure, he’d thought that he would have to be the one that moved out, but even then, that idea hadn’t seemed feasible—more like a passing thought in anger, but now that Sherlock _said_ it, actually said it, a cold slate of fear overtook him.

Sherlock froze on the spot, not turning to look back at John or respond in any way…but he didn’t pull away from him, either. John took that as a good sign, and clung to both it and the small scrap of fabric in his hand desperately.

“Sherlock, it was a _fight_...a _stupid_ fight that never should have happened, I…I know that I walked away from you, but please,” he begged, his voice cracking, “ _please_ don’t walk away from me.”

The other man finally turned to look down at him then; still with that blank, mechanical expression and John _hated_ it, _hated_ that he’d been shut out again…and he had no one to blame but himself. He pressed on, the pleas’ tumbling from his lips as quickly as he could think them, “ _Please_ , please just listen…people fight and argue, all the time… _we’ve_ argued, but we always fixed it, people fix things…okay, _most_ of them fix things,” he babbled, not quite sure himself of where he was going with this, but desperate enough to say anything and everything that would make Sherlock stay. “ _We_ can fix this; people in relationships, they don’t just…leave…okay, _some_ do, but not everyone, just…I’m _stupid_ , so goddamned _stupid_!... _please_ , don’t leave!” he finished, running out of breath as his throat clenched and eyes stung, threatening to spill over.

Sherlock simply stood there watching him for a long moment, John still holding onto his sleeve; just as he thought (or hoped) that he saw a flicker of, of _something_ in the detectives’ eyes…they closed, and his lips parted instead. “A…relationship?” he asked slowly, an indiscernible timbre to his voice.

John paused; he couldn’t quite believe he’d said it, either…but he had. “Sherlock…we _really_ need to talk,” he said wearily…

The moment for _that_ conversation had finally arrived.

Sherlock said nothing, but sat back down in his own chair across from the doctor, crossing his legs and propping his elbow on the armrest, his fingertips brushing his chin. Now that the problem sat there, staring him in the face (both literally _and_ figuratively), John was a bit lost on how to approach the matter; his mind reeled with images from the past few days…and the one his mind kept flipping back to seemed to be the most damning one: Sherlocks’ semi-erection. John scrunched his eyes shut and raked his fingers back through his hair, “You…you said this wasn’t sexual, you _liar_.”

“And you said you weren’t ‘gay’, _**liar**_ ,” Sherlock snapped back, causing Johns’ head to pop up, surprised. The detective sneered, “Oh, _enough_ with the theatrics; ‘subtlety’ has never been your strong suit, John…I heard you in the shower this morning, I saw the fixation you had on my hands and mouth…and I’ve caught you _blatantly_ staring at my cock! More than once, as a matter of fact! Don’t think for one instant, John Watson, that just because I don’t have a ‘normal’ sexual proclivity, that I’m _oblivious_ to the nature of human attraction!” The disdain was heavy in his manner, and John was rendered speechless.

Well, _nearly_ speechless. “You…heard me?” he asked, blushing.

“What do you think woke. me. up?” the man drawled, an ‘I-smell-shit’ expression playing across his face. “I thought that that pair of cats living in the alley were back at it!”

John placed both hands over his face and sank in his chair, groaning. “Stop fucking _exaggerating_!...how much did you hear?” he asked, peeking between his fingers.

Sherlock glanced at him, then slid low in his chair, just as John was, and began to buck his hips and moan, “ _Uh, uh, uh, Sh-sher-, UH! Sh-sherl-LOOOOCK_!”

The doctor rolled his eyes and turned away from the lascivious display, and was mortified to realize just how erotic it was to see and hear the detective behaving so wantonly, even in parody. “Okay, okay… _enough_!”

Sherlock sat up straight, all poise and perfect posture again, and readjusted his cuffs. “Well,” he said, back to being airy and flippant, “You _asked_.”

John knew… _knew_ …that the man was doing this on purpose; trying to rile him up, disjoint him, throw him off. And while his brazen little display had certainly been distracting, John was not to be deterred. “Alright, _yes_ , I did,” he snapped, then steeled himself. “Sherlock, I’m…I’m done, I’m tired of the games; I’m going to be completely honest with you, and I hope you’ll still respect me enough afterwards to be the same with me.”

Sherlock once again cocked that ever-smug eyebrow and gave John a small nod, encouraging him to continue.

John took a deep breath and looked off at a spot on the wall above the detectives’ shoulder, because he couldn’t—could _not_ —look him in the eye for this…

And so, John effectively spilled his guts.

Once he actually started, he found that he couldn’t stop; everything tumbled forth from his lips like so many grains of sand in an hourglass…everything from dreaming of the detective in nothing but a nappy while he pressed a dummy between his lips, to getting a rush of adrenaline when he went in search of ‘Gladstone’ to bring home. He admitted obsessing over the moment when he’d bared the mans’ bottom and found him hard, along with the glimpses he’d caught while changing into his pajamas…and for the coup de grâce, he told him each and every detail of his time in the shower that morning, from Sarah morphing into Molly, who morphed into Irene, who morphed into _him_.

John finished, his mouth going completely dry while he waited for the disdainful, smarmy reaction…

Silence.

He looked back at the man cautiously; his shoulders hunched as if the insults that would surely be thrown his way were something physical he needed to duck from.

But Sherlock only sat there, looking at him but not _at_ him, with his head cocked at a peculiar angle…obviously, he was going over the new data presented to him. After several moments of silent deliberation, he came back to the here-and-now with a slight shake of his head and peered at John oddly. “My head…” he said slowly, still pondering, “on Irenes’ body?”

‘ _Oh, for fucks_ ’...!’ John facepalmed and mumbled a few expletive-laden phrases under his breath. Why he hadn’t expected the man to focus on that particular detail…“Nooooo, it was _your_ body,” he spat impatiently, “your face, your body…but you had her hair, or whatever, but that’s not—that’s not the bloody-fuckin’ _point_!” he finished, his voice having risen several octaves in the meantime.

Sherlock ignored him, his fingers tapping at his chin. “…How did I look with longer hair?”

John whipped his head up, “ _Sherlock_!”

The detective regarded him with an indifferent air, “Just curious.”

“Would _you_ —!?” John stopped in midsentence and held a hand up, counting to ten in his head to reign in his temper…when he reached thirty-five, he tried again. “Would you _please_ focus and take me seriously while I’m trying to tell you that I love you?”

The smirk that had embedded itself into Sherlocks’ features quickly faded. “You…love me?”

John startled; had he really said that out loud? _Shit_ , he had.

He coughed, attempting to buy some time to regather his scattered thoughts on the matter from earlier. “Okay, wait, just…yeah, okay, I do _care_ about you, I think about you—a lot…I worry about you—a _lot_...maybe not romantically, but I…no, that’s not quite true, either, I just…” he paused, and sighed.

“Yeah, Sherlock…I love you.”

Now, John was still confident in thinking he knew Sherlock well-enough (even after todays’ revelations) to know that he wouldn’t be received with a weepy man on bended knee, professing his own unfettered love for the doctor in return, with hearts and flowers and poetry—but he wasn’t necessarily expecting the reaction that he _did_ get, either.

The detective studied him…skeptically. “Why now?” he asked, his voice rife with the inner turmoil that had been hounding him for days now. “Was it _only_ the headspace; you couldn’t love me unless I gave you some semblance of ‘control’?”

Of course, John was going to protest that _no_ , that wasn’t the case, of course not!...

But he stopped before the first syllable could leave his lips: of course that wasn’t the case…

Was it?

John hadn’t thought about it in those terms, honestly. True, he hadn’t ever physically been attracted to the man before recent events—sure he could see the allure of his unconventional looks; Sherlock was certainly pret… _handsome_ , but he’d never gotten an, an _erection_ , or fantasized about him until after seeing this new side of the man…

Oh.

_OH!_

John sat up straight, his eyes widening and mouth dropping open comically; that was _it_!

“Sherlock, I…!” he began, the rush from coming to the conclusion all on his own making him giddy and excitable.

Sherlock wasn’t in his chair anymore.

The doctor frowned, his good humour deflating a touch and wondering where the _hell_ the other man had wandered off to at such a crucial moment, when he heard the distinct sound of a throat clearing off to the side, behind his chair.

John turned in that direction and was met with a steaming cup of tea being held out towards him. He looked up, surprised, and met Sherlocks’ eyes while giving a short laugh and taking it from him. “Thank you…I didn’t realize I’d been thinking for _that_ long.”

Sherlock gave a slight shrug, turning his gaze downcast, “You looked as if you needed it…no sugar,” he added.

John nodded appreciatively and took a sip, feeling the bitter liquids’ heat flow down his throat and spread its warmth throughout his chest; the steam helping to clear his head and push his thoughts into a coherent string. The doctor licked his upper lip and nodded his head towards Sherlocks’ chair. “Go ahead; sit back down, please.”

Sherlock did.

John took another sip. “You’re right,” he said.

The detective paled slightly and looked away.

“…But not in the way you think.”

Sherlock stilled, then looked back curiously, his eyes flashing in the rapidly dimming light.

“As I was saying…you’re right, the baby thing _did_ have something to do with it…”

“… _Not_ a ‘baby’!” Sherlock grumbled, leaning back and crossing his arms.

John closed his eyes and gave a small exhalation of breath, and then looked back at the detective while taking another sip and raising his eyebrow. “The _toddler_ thing, then…yes, it had something to do with it; it finally let me see all of you.”

Sherlocks’ arms stayed crossed, but his entire demeanour, as well as his expression, softened.

“Not that I didn’t feel close or care about you before…I did, greatly,” he continued, suddenly feeling lighter all over, both physically and mentally. “But there was always the sense that you were _guarding_ something; that there were things you weren’t telling me…things like your father being gone.”

The mans’ relaxed stature instantly became tense and stiffened again, and John quickly tried to smooth it over again. “No, don’t…” he said, holding up a hand in concession. “I’m not going to force it out of you; you can talk about it _if_ and when ever you so choose.” His words had the desired effect, thankfully, and Sherlock sagged back into his seat.

John put his tea aside; it was only serving as a distraction now. “Sherlock, what I’m trying to say is,” he leaned forward, planting his elbows on his knees and closing one hand into a fist, then clasping the other around it. “I loved you as much as I could love another man…but it wasn’t until you let me _in_ , allowed me to see the whole you, with all of your faults and worries and vulnerabilities, and your…your _innocence_ …that was when I fell _in_ love with you.”

The silence that followed weighed heavily in the room, stifling the doctor as if a thick woolen blanket had been cast over him. John pressed his lips to his hands and stared at the floor, afraid to look up …until he heard a small noise that he’d become well-acquainted with during recent events.

His head snapped up to look; Sherlock was _crying_.

The detective was trying his damndest to keep quiet and control himself, but he was fighting a losing battle. His eyes were scrunched shut tightly, yet big, silent tears rolled down his cheeks; a balled fist was pressed to his trembling lips in an attempt to still them—indeed, his whole form was shaking from the effort to repress his sobs.

“Sherlock,” John said quietly, wanting nothing more than to go to him.

The other man opened his eyes, tears still cascading down his face; he looked…hurt. Horribly, horribly hurt.

John swallowed thickly.

“Y-you,” Sherlock began, his voice stuttering and cracking in such a way that John had never heard before. “You s-said, j-just last n—night, in th-that kitch…kitchen, th-that you’d nev-never l-leave,” a sob broke through and interrupted him and left his mouth hanging open, as if he’d forgotten how to work it. “A-and, and you _d-did_ ; y-you _w-walked away_ f-from m-me…and n-now you _l-love me_?!?” he cried out, before burying his face in his hands and weeping openly.

John was stunned; Oh, God…he had, he _had_ said that.

_‘John Watson…you have FUCKED up worse than you could ever imagine,’_ he thought as the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach returned. He stood, not knowing what else to do, but the only thing he was sure of was that he wanted to be near the other man, even if Sherlock didn’t. John walked over cautiously and knelt next to his chair, refraining from touching him just yet, even though the need was nearly unbearable.

“Sherlock,” he said, his voice gentle, “will you…will you look at me, please?”

There was a small cough from behind his hands, followed by a round of sniffling…the man was trying to pull himself together. He finally lowered them just enough to peer down at John over his fingertips with reddened, tear-filled eyes.

Now, John had a bold plan; it could either help set things right, or…it could turn out to be a disaster and earn him a slap across the face for his trouble—

But he had to _try_.

“…Can Daddy hold you?”

Sherlocks’ trembling ceased, and his sobs grew quiet…he slowly lowered his hands into his lap while he watched John carefully, as if he didn’t believe that he really heard what was said. “Y-you’re…you’re still…Daddy?” he asked softly, his breath still hitching.

John gave him a shaky smile and swallowed against the tightness that just wouldn’t give up its hold around his heart…especially upon hearing that pitiful, tear-soaked query. “If you still want me to be,” he replied, his own voice getting a little raspy.

No sooner than he’d finished saying it, Sherlocks’ face scrunched again…and before John could make the move to comfort him, the detective leaned forward and wrapped his arms around the doctors’ shoulders, proceeding to bury his face in the crook of Johns’ neck with a wave of fresh tears. “D-da…da-daddy,” he hiccupped, sounding very much like the sad little boy he often hid away.

After the initial shock and awe of being forgiven in such a way wore off, John responded by wrapping his own arms around Sherlocks’ waist, holding him tightly. He turned his head to place a soft kiss on top of the sweet curls lying on his shoulder, leaving his lips pressed to them while he shushed the little detective. “Shhh, it’s alright…Daddy made a _horrible_ mistake, but it’s _never_ going to happen again; he promises.”

Oh, _how_ he promised…over and over and over again, in the form of gentle kisses all over the side of Sherlocks’ head, before making him sit back just enough to where he could reach those tear-stained cheeks and, finally, his lips.

Their ‘first’ kiss was gentle and sweet, and not at all like John had expected kissing a man would be like; as a matter of fact, if he closed his eyes, he could easily picture a woman instead, with the full, smooth pout Sherlock possessed…

But he didn’t _want_ to picture a woman…all he wanted was Sherlock, who’d closed his eyes when John began his ‘apologizing’, and kept them closed after their mouths parted. He opened them now, gazing directly into Johns’.

That’s what they did for several slow minutes…simply gazed at each other, basking in the glow that settles on every couple after a particularly nasty fight, erasing the harsh memories and easing the hurt feelings. Sherlock was still draped over John, their foreheads touching, when the detectives’ glassy blue eyes clouded over with worry.

John frowned, concerned. “What’s wrong, love?”

Sherlock sat back hesitantly and put his finger to his lips, highlighting the uncharacteristic shyness that came along with his unguarded mental state. “John, I…” he stopped and blushed, looking away….then looked back nervously. “I know I said that I wasn’t oblivious to human attraction, and I’m not, but…I’ve never actually been… _physical_ …with anyone else, other than myself. Never _wanted_ to be, at least…before now,” he said, his voice growing quieter and quieter until John found himself leaning forward to catch what the man was saying.

At first, John could only stare at him, wide-eyed…leave it to Sherlock to go off worrying about the mechanics before the framework could be finished. He started to chuckle, shaking his head, “No, Sherlock, just—” he began, pausing to consider his own feelings on the matter…”Don’t worry about _that_ right now,” he said, even though he knew the man well enough to know that it wasn’t going to leave his mind for an instant. “We can figure all of it out at our own leisure.” With that, he took Sherlocks’ hands into his and kissed them while he idly stroked his thumb over the knuckles.

That seemed too put Sherlock at ease for now, though he was still quite tearful and sensitive from his outpouring of emotion…he took a deep, shuddering breath that ended in a whimper, and since John was holding his hands, he resorted to wiping his cheek against his shoulder to dry it.

John absolutely melted, much in the same way Molly had spoken of earlier, and ‘aw’ed at him…he stood up and tugged on Sherlocks’ hands, “C’mon…let Da’ wash your face and hold you,” he said, determining then and there to spoil his little boy for the rest of their weekend.

While they stood at the washroom sink with Sherlock patiently letting John wipe down his red, puffy eyes and face with a cool, wet flannel cloth while he sat on the closed toilet lid, the doctor had only one more unresolved regret… “I wish I hadn’t left everything behind at the store,” he sighed, both disappointed and ashamed of himself.

Sherlock, who’d been mesmerized into silence by the gentle loving-care that he was being showered with, looked up at him, his eyes growing wide…and then popped up and darted out of the room in a flash, leaving behind a totally bewildered Daddy. John stepped out into the hallway to follow him, worrying that he’d said something to hurt the little detectives’ feelings again. “Sher—?!” was all he had time to get out before nearly running nose first into outstretched hands…hands that clutched a white plastic bag tightly.

John felt the corner of his mouth twitch up into a lopsided grin before taking the bag from the eager little boy and opening it…and just as he suspected, there were the bottles, the dummies, the wipes, everything. He looked back up at Sherlocks’ glowing face, “Sneaky little monkey,” he said, his voice loving. “When did you…?”

“After Molly chased you,” was the quieted response, as he looked away from John and into the bag. “I thought that, even if you went away…I’d still like the ones you picked out for me.”

John stood there, letting that sink in fully…and then pulled Sherlock into the tightest hug that he could muster.

Sherlock huffed at the suddenness of it, and then giggled sweetly…”Can’t breathe, Daddy!”

John chuckled and loosened his grip, only to take the bag from him and hold it open. “Pick one,” he said knowing that Sherlock knew exactly what he meant. The little detective peered into the bag, his finger going to his mouth while he pondered...then he reached into it and came back out with the package that held the light green soother; the one that John had picked.

The doctors’ heart swelled…”Sweet boy,” he cooed, taking it from him and popping it open. He put the empty box back into the bag and took Sherlocks’ hand, leading him back downstairs and into the kitchen. After setting the rest of the bag onto the counter to be dealt with later, John took the dummy and gave it a quick but thorough wash under the tap, with the little detective watching over his shoulder curiously. “Mine?” he asked, his voice going soft around the edges and turning to a higher pitch (high-pitched for _him_ , rather).

John grinned while he shook it dry. “Yours,” he answered back, now leading the way into the sitting room and settling himself onto the couch, pulling Sherlock into his lap.

Not that the little detective didn’t plop into it willingly, anyway.

Sherlock curled up the same way he had the night before: sideways, with his back against the arm, legs stretched out on the cushions beside them. He looked from John to his dummy, then to John again, and held out his hand…“Mine?” he asked again, his eyes wide.

John chuckled and gently reached over and pushed Sherlocks’ arm back down. “Magic word?”

Sherlocks’ eyes turned pleading while his bottom lip pushed out—in one of the most gut-wrenchingly adorable ways, he pouted and tried again; “Mine _p’ease_ , Daddy???” he begged, giving short little huffs of air that signaled another impending burst of tears…unless John did something to stop it, and _now_.

The doctor laid his head back and laughed heartily...even if it was a mini-fit; that was just _too_ impossibly cute for words. “Very, _very_ good!” he praised, then held the dummy to his mouth. “Open, please…there we go, good lad,” he cooed as the pouty little detective parted his lips slightly and let John slide the nipple between them.

Sherlock put his fingers to it to investigate, giving it a few test-sucks while John watched on, tickled to death at the sight…and apparently, it passed inspection; once the little detective found his rhythm, he gave a content little smile and leaned to rest his head on Johns’ shoulder, the dummy bobbing in his mouth while he made soft sucking sounds.

John was floating; he was just so, so _happy_ …“Daddy loves his little boy, yes he does,” he whispered while rocking the bundle in his lap back and forth soothingly.

Sherlock grasped the bottom of Johns’ jumper in one hand and nuzzled his forehead into the crook of his neck, “Y’uv Da’,” he whispered back, the dummy muddying his words childishly.

John leaned down to kiss the top of his little one’s head as he kept rocking…soon after, the dead weight in his lap and the slow, shallow breathing told him that naptime had snuck upon them. He stilled, looking down at the sleep-smoothed, sweet little face in his arms and couldn’t help but wince at the thought that he’d nearly ruined it, ruined _everything_ , and missed a moment like this…one moment out of many more to come, he hoped.

‘ _It’s okay now, though_ ,’ he promised himself, holding Sherlock just a little bit tighter…the movement roused the little detective and he stretched out, turning onto his side in Johns’ lap, facing him and tucking his arms in between their bodies; bright blue eyes cracked open slightly and met his for an instant, then fluttered closed again with a happy-sounding little sigh as sleep took back its hold.

John smiled, feeling tears prick the corners of his eyes…

Yes, it was all going to be okay.


End file.
